Whumptober 2019
by elbcw
Summary: A collection of short stories and one shots following prompts for 'Whumptober.'
1. Shaky Hands

**Authors note: This is a series of one-shots and short stories I have written for the 'Whumptober 2019' prompts that can be found on 'tumblr'. I have listed the whumpees for each story in notes at the end of each chapter in case you don't want to know before reading, or in case you do. Some of the stories link with others, I have noted this when it happens. If you want a list of the days when your favourite Musketeer(s) get whumped, PM me and I will send you a breakdown.**

**I hope you enjoy them as much as I enjoyed writing them. You will get one a day for the month unless real life prevents me.**

**Shaky Hands **

'Aramis. You can do it, just take your time.'

'I'm shaking too much…'

'Aramis, I cannot do it myself and d'Artagnan is in no state to do...anything.'

Athos glanced across at their friend. The young Musketeer had just about managed to untie Aramis before passing out. He had simply flopped to the side; Aramis had managed to stop him from hitting his already abused head on the ground. After briefly checking d'Artagnan was breathing and as comfortable as he could be the field medic had turned his attention to Athos.

Athos had waited patiently as Aramis untied him and eased his doublet off his arm, the deep wound had left his shirt sleeve dark with blood. He had managed to rip the fabric as Aramis had stumbled off to find his medical bag. They were fortunate that the villains had not taken their horses and kit.

Now Aramis was clumsily cleaning the deep cut with water and alcohol. Athos had suppressed the wish to cry out in pain as the spirit was used on his arm. Athos reached out and steadied his friend when he wavered. Athos knew they were working against the clock; it was only a matter of time before the effects of the interrogation caught up with Aramis and he would not be able to stitch the wound.

'It's not going to be my best work,' Aramis managed a shaky grin to go along with his shaking hands.

Athos threaded the needle, knowing it would take his bruised friend too long to do it himself.

'I know, but I would rather it be dealt with than not.'

Athos tensed up as Aramis went to work, his shaking fingers meaning the first stitch was quite a way off its mark, but the stitch itself was fairly neat. The second stitch was on target. Athos resorted to holding Aramis' shoulder to keep him where he needed to be, the concept of remaining upright was rapidly leaving his friend. Athos could practically see Aramis wilting. The medic would soon be in no state to sit up let alone stitch a dagger wound.

'A few...more,' said Aramis, his eyes narrowed as he put all his concentration into the stitching.

Athos held back each hiss of pain as Aramis either dug too deeply with the needle or missed completely and needed to try again to get the stitches into the best position. Slowly and surely the medic did his job. Athos was glad; he had not been lying when he told Aramis he could not stitch the wound himself.

He glanced around; he knew that once Aramis had finished, he would need to rest. Neither Aramis nor d'Artagnan would be fit to travel for a few hours. The clearing they had stopped in would suffice for a temporary camp. The stream would provide them with the water they needed, and they were far enough from the road so as not to draw attention to themselves. Athos would endeavour to remain on watch as his friends slept but knew he would not be in a fit state to repel anyone with ill intent if they were to be found.

'I'm sorry,' said Aramis after a few seconds. 'You're doing well not to scream; I'm treating you like a pincushion.'

'I wouldn't want to wake d'Artagnan,' said Athos with a strained smile.

Aramis glanced at d'Artagnan who had not stirred since passing out.

'I'm not really looking forward to reporting back to Treville about this,' said Aramis as he pulled the thread through Athos skin at an angle that made Athos' eyes water.

'No,' said Athos, 'we were taken too easily...but what they did to you two was...original...you have to admit.'

Aramis looked at Athos for a few seconds before nodding. The nod followed by a few long blinks and a dip of his head. Athos shook him slightly.

'Two more I think, I can clean up afterwards. You can sleep, you have earned it.'

Aramis managed to focus for long enough to put the final stitches in. He looked at his work before shaking his head.

Athos managed a smile, 'next time, and I am sure there will be a next time, you will be far neater.'

'I hope so,' mumbled Aramis as Athos steadied him.

After helping Aramis to get comfortable on the ground, his medical bag employed as a pillow Athos checked on d'Artagnan who was still sleeping soundly.

They had been unfortunate, he thought, but he was grateful to both his friends. To d'Artagnan for his determination in getting Aramis free and to Aramis for his ability to look after him in such difficult circumstances. He hoped he could repay them both by keeping them safe as they slept and recovered sufficiently for them to move on.

The End.

**Whumpees: Athos, d'Artagnan and Aramis. **

**Authors note: You will have to wait until number 25 to find out how they got into this particular pickle.**


	2. Explosion

**Authors note: Thanks for the reviews. I would have liked to reply to more of you, but the site was being mean and throwing up an error. :-( **

**Explosion **

D'Artagnan did not have his eyes open but he knew the sun was beating down on him. He slowly turned his head and raised his hand to shield his eyes as he opened them. Even after shading his eyes the brightness of the day was uncomfortable. Through squinted eyes, he looked around. He was not sure where he was. Wherever he was had been destroyed, stone walls were crumbled and fallen all around him. Wisps of smoke told him the destruction was new. But he could not remember it happening.

The ringing in his ears slowly faded, to be replaced by silence. He wished the thumping in his head would fade as well.

Very slowly d'Artagnan managed to sit up. He looked down at himself, he was dusty, and his clothing and boots were scuffed, but he did not seem hurt. Other than his head.

He had definitely hurt his head.

He reached up and felt the back of his head, there was a lump, but no blood. He suspected he would find bruises as the hours wore on, but at that moment it was only the bump on his head that was affecting him.

He tried to piece together how he had come to be where he was. Had he been with anyone? Should he be looking for someone else in the rubble that had been a building? He did not even know what the building had been. It was all very confusing. There was something in his mind that came to the fore. He had written something down. He reached into his doublet and pulled out a folded piece of paper, he looked at it for a few seconds and realised it had probably been a good idea that he had written down the details of what he had found out, as he had no recollection of them.

But now he knew why he was where he was. He also knew he would have to get that information back to his Captain. Treville would know what to do with it.

D'Artagnan set himself a mission. Getting back to the garrison.

He knew the injury to his head was likely to cause him problems. The sooner he could get back to the garrison, back to safety, the better. He could hand over the information and let his friends take care of him. He managed a smile, they still fussed over him as if he was a cadet whenever he was injured. Secretly he did not mind.

He slowly looked around again, there was no sign of anyone else, not even a body. Had he been alone when the building had exploded?

He was sure the building had been blown up, either by accident or design, but he had no idea why. Perhaps the information he had written down would make sense to Treville and he would know why it was necessary for the building, whatever it had been, to be destroyed.

With carefully controlled movements, d'Artagnan, twisted around so that he was on his knees. His vision swam, he had to take a few deep breaths, fighting a nausea he had not felt whilst lying on his back.

The explosion had either scared people away or he was in a very quiet area of the city, perhaps on the outskirts. Would people be coming? D'Artagnan decided that he did not want to meet anyone, he would not know if they were friend or foe and in his current state, he would not be able to fight anyone.

Getting to his feet and moving away was his first priority, orientating himself and heading towards the garrison his second.

Get back to the garrison.

D'Artagnan's mission would become his mantra, he had to fight the head injury, he had to succeed.

After a few stumbled steps he managed to stand straight. He waited for the spinning to stop before moving again. He had to try to walk normally or he would draw attention to himself. Although walking away from the site of an explosion whilst covered with dust was likely to make him noticeable anyway. But that could not be helped, he had brushed off the worst of the dust and debris, but he knew he would still stand out.

If he did not look at anyone, if he ignored people, he might not get stopped. He could not be stopped. He could not be delayed.

Get back to the garrison.

D'Artagnan made his way through the fallen stones and bricks, being careful not to stumble, he did not like the idea of having to get to his feet again. He still had not seen anyone. It took him a few more yards of careful steps to work out where he was. He looked up, fortunately away from the harsh sunlight and saw the steeple to an old disused church. He sighed. He now knew he had quite a long walk ahead of him. And there was not even the prospect of a safe haven between his current location and the garrison.

Get back to the garrison.

Voices to his left made him turn his head, a movement he quickly regretted. Pushing on through the spinning and nausea he moved quickly out of sight of the people. He did not stop to see who had arrived he walked away.

Normally d'Artagnan would have welcomed a warm sunny morning, but not this time. The low sun was hot on his back as he walked, each time he found shade he was pleased.

Perhaps he could stop in the shade for a while.

Get back to the garrison.

He pushed on. More people started to appear, some stopped to look at him, some walked on by. None of them spoke to him, he continued to look ahead, he did not make eye contact, he could not be distracted. He felt as though he was making progress across the city, but at the same time, it did not feel as though he had moved at all. He wondered if he was walking in a circle. He knew he was not; he had not turned off the road. But he would have to soon, although he could not remember why.

Get back to the garrison.

D'Artagnan turned into a smaller road, he knew it linked to the busy road that led to his destination. He had forgotten where he was going again. He paused, leaning on a wall, running a hand through his hair. He gasped as he brushed the bruising to his head, he could feel his knees buckling.

Get back to the garrison.

Panting hard, blinking frequently and trying not to throw up d'Artagnan managed to push off the wall and stand again. He could not afford to stop he had to keep going. He had to get the...the...what was he doing again?

Get back to the garrison.

Get back to the garrison.

Get back to the garrison.

But why?

The End.

**Whumpee: D'Artagnan**

**Authors note: Obviously that's not the end. Find out what happened next tomorrow.**


	3. Delirium

Delirium

**Authors note: This follows on from yesterday's prompt.**

'He was quite merry when we left,' said Porthos with a grin, 'if he carried on drinking, I hate to think what state he'll be in when he turns up.'

Athos shook his head, 'a good thing we are not on duty until this afternoon then.'

He looked at his friends disapprovingly. Porthos and Aramis had taken d'Artagnan to one of the seedier taverns to watch an illegal fight. Of course, Porthos had taken a turn, and won, meaning they had been flushed with money to spend for the rest of the evening. The black eye Porthos was sporting meant he would probably be consigned to duties around the garrison for the next few days. Treville would probably give them a ticking off and remind them that their soldiering was more important than betting on bar brawls and that they should not be leading d'Artagnan into trouble. Athos was of the same opinion. What his friends got up to in their off-duty hours was up to them, although dragging their young friend into the midst of it was probably not such a good idea.

They had left d'Artagnan at another tavern talking with some of his other friends. He had said goodnight, saying he would see them in the morning. One of the friends had been out of the city and wanted to catch up with d'Artagnan. Porthos and Aramis had not expected d'Artagnan to stay out the entire night.

Aramis poured himself another cup of water, the Musketeer was trying to hide the fact that he was suffering from the effects of too much alcohol. Porthos did not seem to be suffering, but he had always been a better drinker than Aramis.

'When he turns up,' said Athos, 'perhaps you could mix him one of those draughts of yours that helps with headaches?'

Porthos sniggered, 'I think Aramis could probably do with one of those himself.'

Aramis looked at them both, 'it's not that bad. I'll be fine by the time we start our duty.'

Athos shook his head and rolled his eyes.

They all looked up when they saw him. Porthos laughed, Aramis smirked, and Athos shook his head again.

The young Musketeer looked as though he had just wandered out of the tavern. Athos wondered if he had continued to drink with the friends that Porthos and Aramis had left him with.

'How did he get in that state?' asked Athos as he looked d'Artagnan over.

The young man was filthy, he was covered in dust and dirt, he had mud on his breeches and his boots were scuffed. He was also missing his weapons, Athos knew d'Artagnan would get in trouble for that.

They watched as the confused man wandered towards them. Athos knew what it felt like to sober up after a long drinking session, he pitied his friend, even if he thought d'Artagnan deserved the pain.

As d'Artagnan reached them Aramis shuffled along the bench a little to allow him to sit down. As the untidy Musketeer lowered himself gingerly to the bench he started to speak. But what he said made no sense.

'I had to come back,' he said. 'The building was broken...couldn't stop...get back to the garrison. My mission...get back to the garrison.'

'You're back at the garrison now,' said Porthos. 'When did you leave the tavern?'

D'Artagnan looked at Porthos for a few seconds, 'I'm not in a tavern. I was in the broken building...wrote it down.'

'D'Artagnan?' said Aramis. 'Are you alright?'

'We should get him inside, Treville should not see him like this,' said Athos, glancing around as he spoke.

Their Captain knew they needed to let off steam occasionally but d'Artagnan appeared to have gone a bit far.

'Wrote it down...need to tell the Captain,' d'Artagnan was blinking and wavering a bit.

When he tried to stand up again, he stumbled to the floor.

'Whoa,' said Porthos. 'You need to lie down, even Athos doesn't get this bad.'

Athos glared at him, 'I shall take that as a compliment,' he said through gritted teeth.

Aramis had moved off the bench and crouched beside d'Artagnan who was trying to undo his doublet.

'Get back to the garrison...wrote words down...I've forgotten them…'

Athos could see genuine concern on Aramis' face. The field medic reached up and gently felt d'Artagnan's head. D'Artagnan hissed and pulled away, pushing Aramis' hand off him.

'Have you fallen over?' asked Aramis.

D'Artagnan just looked at him. Aramis looked up at Athos and Porthos.

'He's got a bump on the back of his head. I think he's been unconscious.'

'That would explain why he's behaving like that,' remarked Porthos.

D'Artagnan was pulling at his doublet again.

'Does he mean it?' asked Athos. 'That he's written something down?'

Aramis gently peeled d'Artagnan's fingers away from the buttons on his dusty doublet and undid the top two. The crumpled paper was tucked into his jacket, Aramis eased it out and handed it to Athos before returning his attention to the injured man.

Athos opened the paper, he read the scrawled words recognising d'Artagnan's writing.

'I need to get this to Treville,' he said.

'Go,' said Porthos, 'we'll take care of him.'

Athos nodded his thanks and ran to the stable.

MMMM

'What do you think that was about?' asked Porthos as he watched Athos disappear into the stable to saddle his horse.

'No idea,' said Aramis, 'and at the moment I'm more concerned about d'Artagnan. Help me get him to the infirmary. This confusion worries me.'

'Get back to the garrison…'

'D'Artagnan,' said Aramis, 'you are back at the garrison. You are safe.'

D'Artagnan looked at Aramis for a few seconds before nodding.

'Tired,' he said.

'I know,' said Aramis.

Porthos moved to the injured man's other side, he copied Aramis' actions of gently easing d'Artagnan up to stand. The confused man allowed them to walk him slowly towards the infirmary.

'Will he be alright?'

Aramis shook his head, 'I don't know. Head injuries are always difficult. And we don't know what else has happened to him.'

Porthos sighed. They had all taken knocks to the head at one point or the other, showing signs of confusion was not uncommon but it was unnerving. Porthos knew they would have to keep a careful eye on their friend for the next few days.

D'Artagnan had gone quiet, Porthos wondered if he was trying to work out what was going on. They sat him on the edge of one of the beds and started to strip him of his filthy clothes.

'I wonder what happened to him?' said Aramis as he eased the young man's arms from the sleeves of his doublet.

'What did he say, something about a…' Porthos paused, thinking back to the confused words d'Artagnan had managed when he had first returned, 'broken building or something.'

Porthos took the doublet and brushed it down sending dust and small lumps of brick across the floor.

'Was he caught in an explosion?'

Aramis looked at d'Artagnan who was watching the dust particles that had been caught in the sunlight that was streaming through the window.

'Didn't one of the cadets say there had been an earthquake earlier?' said Porthos.

They had laughed at the cadet at the time, but now Porthos wondered if the lad had heard an explosion.

'Near the closed church…' said d'Artagnan who seemed to have been able to follow their conversation. 'Can't remember the name...sorry.'

Porthos smiled, he crouched down in front of d'Artagnan, 'I think you've done some good work, but you can't remember it. You wrote some notes and Athos' taken them to the Captain. You're off duty now.'

D'Artagnan nodded.

'Are you hurt? Anywhere other than your head?' asked Aramis as he eased d'Artagnan around on the bed and gently pushed him back against the pillows.

'Don't think so…'

D'Artagnan was blinking again, his eyes closing for longer and longer.

'Keep an eye on him whilst I get some water. We'll get him cleaned up and let him sleep,' Aramis paused watching the sleeping man for a few seconds, 'he did really well. I hope he remembers what he did when he wakes up.'

Aramis wandered off to collect what he needed. Porthos pulled over a chair and sat by the sleeping Musketeer.

He wondered what had been so important that Athos had rushed off to tell Treville. D'Artagnan had obviously known it was important even if he did not remember what it was. Porthos was sure they would be filled in eventually, but for now, the information could wait.

Porthos watched as d'Artagnan roused slightly for a few seconds before slipping back to a restful sleep. He smiled, their friend had managed, despite the odds, to get back to them. They could sort out the whys and hows later.

The End.

**Whumpee: D'Artagnan. Featuring all four.**


	4. Human Shield

**Human Shield **

'ENOUGH!' yelled the man with the dirty blue scarf.

The scarf had been covering his face but had slipped during the melee. The man, his evil-looking eyes glaring at them sneered. He held the trump card. He had the means to win the fight and he knew it. He knew they would not contest his win. He knew they would submit to his terms. They all stared at him, criminal and Musketeer alike, all of them breathing hard, their weapons poised ready to finish their move. Moves that would not be made as long as the man with the blue scarf was in a position of power. The man edged backwards, leaning against the low wall, his bargaining tool teetering on the edge.

'Back off, or I will throw him in.'

The man stared the three Musketeers down. He knew they were fiercely loyal to each other. They would not risk the life of one of them for the information they had. The information was not very sensitive. It was not worth a man's life, but it was valuable to the man with the scarf.

One of the Musketeers took a couple of steps forward, stopping when his friend was moved closer to the edge of the wall.

'Drop your weapons or I drop him.'

They dropped their weapons. The man noticed that the Musketeer that had edged closer took the opportunity to take another step towards the wall. The man knew what the Musketeer was doing, getting himself into a position to jump over the wall if…no... when his comrade was tipped over the wall and into the water. The man with the scarf did not really care, once he had dealt with the limp man, he was holding tightly in front of him, the Musketeers could do what they wanted to try to save him. If they were distracted trying to save him, they were not trying to catch him and his men.

The man nodded to his deputy, the tall man stepped forward, collecting the weapons off the ground before stopping in front of the youngest Musketeer. The tall man tilted his head and looked pointedly at the money bag on the young man's belt. With a frustrated sigh, the man untied it and handed it to the deputy. The man with the scarf smiled.

'You will give us that envelope,' said the man with the scarf to the Musketeer who looked lucky to still have both eyes.

The soldier glared at him before reaching into his doublet and handing the deputy the pouch containing the envelope.

'And you don't mind us taking your fancy guns, now do you?'

The Musketeer who had been edging towards the wall ready to dive in after his friend rolled his eyes and shook his head as one of the newest men in his gang picked up the guns and tucked them into his belt.

The man with the scarf chuckled, he knew what was going to happen next. They all knew what was going to happen next.

'Are you ready?' he said, unable to keep the mocking tone from his voice.

The Musketeer that was going to jump in after his friend glared at him.

'Do you want to take your doublet off first...might give you a better chance.'

A couple of his men laughed at the remark for a few seconds before nodding appreciatively as the Musketeer followed the suggestion. As the long jacket hit the floor joining the soldier's empty weapons belts and showy blue sash, the man knew it was time. With no warning, he tipped his captive over the wall.

The man with the blue scarf did not bother to wait. He was not interested in the outcome. The unconscious Musketeer was either going to be saved or, more likely, torn to shreds on the mill wheel he was heading towards. The man was aware of a second splash as he ran from the scene of the fight. But he had what he wanted, he and his men would be paid and dine well that night.

That was all the man with the blue scarf cared about.

MMMM

The information, whatever it was, was not worth the number of men that had been sent to steal it, thought Aramis. They knew it was about some nobles from the South of France, probably some scandal or other, but not worth attacking four of the King's Musketeers for. And yet there they were fighting several men, Aramis had not had the chance to count, in an attempt to keep the information safe. He wondered why they bothered sometimes.

He pushed the man in front of him away for a second time. The tall, but lithe young man, had no skill with a sword and kept getting too close. Aramis just needed a chance to slice him with his main gauche and he could move on to help one of his brothers. He was aware of d'Artagnan engaged with two men and from the swearing going on behind him guessed that Porthos was similarly engaged. Athos was off to the side of him somewhere.

They had known they were being followed for a couple of miles when they spotted the mill with its expanse of open ground around the river that ran beside it they decided to deal with their unwelcome company. It had not taken the men long to rush at them. Aramis was confident they would deal with the men, probably pay the mill owner to deal with any bodies and continue onto Paris with a few arrested men in tow.

He did not expect the events to turn as they did.

'ENOUGH!'

The yell from behind him was not enough to make him stop, but it did cause the tall man to step back, far enough away to prevent Aramis from reaching him. Confused Aramis glanced around, stopping dead in his tracks at what he saw.

The man who had yelled was of a large, broad build, more than capable of holding the very unconscious Athos in front of him and levelling a gun in their direction. Athos was slumped in the man's arm, his head down. Aramis could see a trickle of blood making its way down his brother's temple. How Athos had come to be unconscious was unclear. What was clear was that he was injured and probably would not come around quickly enough to help himself.

The man edged backwards a few steps. Aramis could see what he intended to do. The river, its fast-flowing water only a few feet from where the man was standing, would make the perfect distraction to help the men get away. Aramis could not help himself; he took a couple of steps forward. The man stared at him; Aramis stopped moving.

'Back off, or I will throw him in.'

None of them moved, the attackers lowered their weapons and stepped back from the Musketeers. Aramis did not take his eyes off the man or Athos. When his brother was thrown into the river, he knew he would have to act fast. The water would be cold, but that would be the least of their worries. The mill wheel was turning, if Athos was swept towards it, he would stand no chance. The only way they would be able to save him would be to grab him and steer him away from the mill run. The only way that was going to happen would be with one of them in the water. Aramis had not looked at Porthos or d'Artagnan, both were a few meters behind him, but he knew they would be thinking the same. Aramis was the strongest swimmer of the three of them, he was going in the river after Athos.

'Drop your weapons or I drop him.'

The man holding Athos moved right to the edge of the river, leaning on the low wall, ready to twist his unfortunate captive over the wall to his doom. As he dropped his sword and guns to the floor Aramis managed to take another step toward the river. He did not try to advance on the man, instead, he stepped to the side. He was aware of movement behind him, their weapons being collected, he guessed.

'You will give us that envelope,' said the man nodding to someone behind Aramis.

Porthos had the pouch with the information in it. Aramis guessed his brothers were being relieved of their weapons and the information. A young man stopped in front of him.

'And you don't mind us taking your fancy guns, now do you?'

Aramis could not help a sarcastic roll of his eyes. He was at a point where he would just like the man to get on with it. The tension that was mounting was almost unbearable, it was becoming difficult to keep still. The young man picked up his guns and tucked them into his belt, Aramis doubted the young would know how to care for the much-loved weapons, but they were low on his list of concerns at that moment.

The man holding Athos turned his full attention to Aramis. A mocking sneer played over his lips. Aramis scowled back.

'Are you ready?'

Aramis wanted to say something but held back, he did not want to make the already difficult and dangerous situation worse.

'Do you want to take your doublet off first...might give you a better chance.'

A couple of the other men sniggered. Aramis looked at the man for a few seconds before doing as had been suggested. The thought of jumping into the river fully clothed had not been appealing, it would have made it harder to swim and grab hold of Athos, who would be weighed down by his own clothes and belts. He quickly pulled his belts off and undid the sash before shedding his doublet, letting all the items fall to the ground at his feet. All the time he watched the man carefully ready to move if...no... when he tipped Athos into the water.

Aramis was focused. The man twisted, the limp Musketeer in his arms tipped over the wall. Aramis was already moving. He heard the splash as Athos hit the water, Aramis jumped after him. The next few seconds would see both of them safe or meeting a grizzly death on the mill wheel.

He leapt over the low wall. The surface was a few feet below him; he held his breath as he hit it, making a conscious effort not to gasp as the cold water soaked him. There was no time to react to anything, his sole focus was on Athos. Aramis had jumped over the wall a few yards downstream of Athos and his unscrupulous attacker. As he twisted in the fast-flowing water Aramis was relieved to spot his brother bobbing a few yards from him. Aramis reached Athos with minimal effort; the unconscious man was easy to manipulate. Aramis was glad Athos had lost his weapons during the fight; his leather clothing was going to add enough weight to the unconscious Musketeer without the added pull of the weapons.

Aramis managed to look behind him, they were already floating towards the mill wheel, which looked much larger now that he was in the water. With much effort, Aramis managed to kick his legs in an attempt to divert them towards the runoff rather than into the mill run itself. If they ended up on the wrong side of the wall that separated the two, he would not be able to save Athos, or himself. He knew it would be close, he knew he was heading for the right side of the wall, but an unseen current or quirk of fate could change their direction at any second.

MMMM

D'Artagnan had handed over his money with a little annoyance. He was more annoyed that the men had got the better of them, that they were threatening Athos' life, that they were going to use their loyalty to each other to get away. But he had won that money. He had soundly beaten Porthos at a round of cards and won it fair and square. The look on Porthos face as he had scooped up the money would stay with d'Artagnan for a long time.

The look on Porthos' face now, as the men relieved them of the information they were carrying and threatened their brother would probably stay with d'Artagnan for far longer.

The two Musketeers had glanced at each other a few times. They could not see Aramis' face; their brother was only focusing on Athos. D'Artagnan had spotted Aramis edging slowly to the edge of the river. He knew the Musketeer was going to jump in after Athos when the sneering leader of the men tipped their helpless brother over the wall. Aramis was in the best position to help Athos initially, but then he and Athos would need help getting out of the river. The banks of the river were steep and for the area immediately around the mill they had been walled in with brick to keep the flow fast to help turn the mill wheel. There was no way Aramis would be able to get himself and an unconscious Athos out of the river when he caught him.

There was no doubt in d'Artagnan's mind that Athos was going in the river. The leader was making that perfectly clear. His mocking suggestion that Aramis take his doublet off underlined the fact that the men knew they had one chance to save Athos.

With a final glance at his own men the leader twisted Athos around. The limp man simply tipped into the water. D'Artagnan heard the splash followed by a second splash. Aramis had disappeared over the low wall seconds after Athos had been thrown in.

Ignoring the laughing men d'Artagnan started to run along the river, following the wall. Porthos was with him, pausing for a second to lean over the wall and look along the river.

'THERE!' yelled Porthos pointing at something further along the river, opposite the wall that divided the main river from the mill run.

D'Artagnan had looked back when Porthos shouted before he followed where Porthos was pointing he saw the gang of men running in the opposite direction. They knew better than to hang around.

Returning his attention to the river d'Artagnan saw what Porthos was pointing at. A set of stone steps carefully built into the wall. D'Artagnan resumed his run alongside the river. He reached the steps and without a pause swung his leg over the low wall and prepared to descend towards the fast-flowing river.

He looked along the river, spotting Aramis and Athos being carried towards them. They were in the middle of the river, despite Aramis' obvious attempts to swim them to the bank. Athos was still unconscious, which, at that moment, was a good thing. If the Musketeer came around, he would struggle and send them both to their deaths. Aramis already looked exhausted from the effort of guiding them away from the mill run. The wheel, which loomed over the dividing wall, might have been a useful tool to help the miller make his flour, but it was also a deadly device that offered no escape from its clutches.

'SWIM, ARAMIS!' Porthos called from above them. 'JUST GET TO US.'

D'Artagnan had no idea if Aramis could hear Porthos, but the man managed to put in a final effort, changing their direction enough to bring them onto the safe side of the wall. D'Artagnan leaned out as far as he dared. He reached over; one arm hooked around one of the metal loops in the wall that served as handrails. He knew they only had one shot at catching hold of each other. If Aramis missed him, the two Musketeers would be carried further down the river, towards some large rocks.

They made eye contact, Aramis tightened his grip on Athos with one arm and managed to reach out with the other. Their arms stretched to the limit they made contact, grabbing at wrists, tightly. D'Artagnan thought the bruises they would both have from the action would be a small price to pay if it meant them all being alive at the end of the day.

D'Artagnan heaved, but he could not pull the two men any closer to the steps. The river was trying to take them away, pull them from his grasp. D'Artagnan did not have the strength to pull his brothers towards the steps, all he could do was hold onto them.

Help appeared, as he knew it would, in the shape of Porthos, who descended the brick steps and managed to lean around him. Where d'Artagnan had been forced to hook his arm through the handrail to keep from being dragged into the river when he grabbed Aramis, Porthos was only clutching at the metal with his hand. He could reach further, grabbing at the collar on Athos doublet. Slower than d'Artagnan would have liked Porthos began to haul the unconscious man towards them. Aramis who had kept hold of Athos was pulled closer as well. D'Artagnan changed his grip on Aramis, easing his brother's hand towards the life-saving handrail.

Aramis managed to close his fingers around the rail but lacked the strength to pull himself towards it. D'Artagnan reached around Aramis and pulled him further forward until the Musketeer had managed to get both hands on the rail.

'Help Porthos,' Aramis managed to say, his eyes on their brothers.

D'Artagnan looked at Aramis for a few seconds before deciding his brother still had enough strength to hold himself where he was. Aramis was right to be concerned. Porthos would not be able to get the unconscious Athos up the vertical steps without help.

'Stay there,' commanded d'Artagnan with a grim smile.

Aramis managed a nod.

Turning his full attention to Porthos and Athos, d'Artagnan twisted around to grip the limp man around the waist.

'Can you hold him for a second, I'll get a couple of steps further up then pull him up. You steady him.'

D'Artagnan nodded. It was not going to be a particularly elegant rescue. They would end up causing more harm to their brother by the time they got him to the top but getting him to the top of the wall was more important.

Porthos climbed up, he reached down, hooking his arm under Athos. Porthos pulled, d'Artagnan pushed. They paused so that d'Artagnan could take a couple of steps up. He glanced down and watched Aramis looking up at them. Aramis had managed to pull himself close enough to the steps to grab the handrail on the opposite of the bottom step as well but made no attempt to haul himself out of the water. D'Artagnan guessed Aramis did not want to present his brothers with a distraction if he were to slip or fall.

They went back to their slow rescue. D'Artagnan was sure it was further up the wall than it had been when he had hurried down the steps earlier. He could feel his strength leaving him. He just hoped he could keep on until Porthos was able to pull Athos over the wall, back to safety.

MMMM

'SWIM, ARAMIS!' Porthos shouted. 'JUST GET TO US.'

He had no idea if his brother had heard him. But the man managed to kick a little harder and gradually move them both towards the safer side of the wall, away from the lethal mill wheel.

D'Artagnan had worked out what he needed to do. He had reached the brick steps and was already lowering himself down as far as he could. The steps stopped a few inches above the water. Porthos leaned over the wall watching Aramis and Athos hurtle towards them. He glanced back at d'Artagnan who had crouched down on the last step and sensibly hooked his arm around the handrail, leaning out as far as he could, his whole concentration on Aramis.

Porthos realised the river was moving too fast for d'Artagnan to be able to pull both the men to safety, not whilst he was himself in such a precarious position. As he swung himself over the wall he glanced up. Movement near the mill had caught his eyes. The miller, clearly recognisable by his dusty clothing and a couple of young men were rushing towards them. Porthos saw the man say something to one of the younger men who peeled off and doubled back on himself heading towards a cottage, no doubt where the miller lived, a short distance further along the river. Porthos decided the men were there to help them. He looked back at d'Artagnan in time to see him grabbing Aramis, their grip strong. At least for the moment. Porthos wasted no further time going to their aid.

He reached the last step; he was pleased it was wide enough for both himself and d'Artagnan. Making sure his grip on the handrail was strong he leaned out around his brother.

Aramis was weakening, d'Artagnan was probably not much better. Aramis had been in the water, keeping a tight hold of Athos for several minutes and d'Artagnan had been keeping both men from being swept away for longer than he should have needed to. But Aramis could not help in his and Athos' rescue, all he could do was keep hold of their unconscious brother.

Porthos managed to get a good grip on Athos collar, he bunched up the leather, pulling the man towards him as he did so. The action served to bring Aramis closer to the steps as well. Porthos was sure d'Artagnan would ensure Aramis was as safe as he could be whilst he dealt with Athos.

As Aramis finally let go of Athos, the cold no doubt affecting the Musketeer, Porthos was faced with the problem of getting Athos back up and over the wall. With a little manipulation, Porthos managed to get his arm around Athos and pulled him closer. But he could not reach the next looped handrail without letting go of the first. He did not want to risk missing the rail if he tried to grab it.

Porthos was aware of a few words being said between Aramis and d'Artagnan before the younger Musketeer moved to his side, sliding his own arm around Athos waist. Porthos glanced down, he nodded to Aramis who was watching them from below as he held firmly to the handrails.

Knowing that Aramis was safe, at least for while meant both Porthos and d'Artagnan could concentrate on their small issue of finished off their rescue of Athos. Porthos realised the only way he could get the dead weight of the unconscious man up the wall would be to haul him up.

'Can you hold him for a second, I'll get a couple of steps further up then pull him up. You steady him.'

D'Artagnan nodded. Porthos let Athos go, knowing that d'Artagnan would keep him safe for the few seconds it would take him to move up two steps and anchor himself again. He leaned down hooking his arm around his brother again. With d'Artagnan pushing the soaked man from below, Porthos was able to haul him up a few inches. He paused as d'Artagnan moved up to join him, grabbing Athos around the waist again, ready to repeat the move.

Porthos looked up, the miller was looking down at him. A younger man was stood by the miller leaning over arms outstretched towards Athos. Porthos understood. He and d'Artagnan repeated the move twice more before the two men above them were able to pull their injured brother over the wall. Athos landed in a heap, but at least he was out of the river.

'I'll help Aramis,' said Porthos, looking back down at his brother who had not moved from the bottom of the steps.

D'Artagnan made his way up and over the wall as Porthos moved back down. He reached for Aramis' arm pulling him up to the point that he could grasp the next handrail up. It took a lot of effort, Aramis tried to pull himself up but could only hold himself on the rails. Porthos managed to get to the side of Aramis and support him each time he needed to let go of a handrail to move up to the next one. It was slow going, but they got there. Aramis flinched away from the miller when the man leaned over to help him.

'It's alright, he's helping us,' reassured Porthos.

The miller pulled Aramis to the right side of the wall, keeping his arm around the Musketeer's waist until Porthos had caught up and could take over with supporting duties. A younger man, Porthos recognised him as the one that had run to the cottage was hovering nearby holding Aramis' doublet. His weapons belts and sash were slung over the man's shoulder. Aramis allowed the young man, who was probably not more than fifteen, to drape the jacket around his shoulders. Aramis looked unfocused and was obviously exhausted.

'My oldest son and your friend, they're heading towards my cottage,' said the miller. 'My wife is building the fire up for you and finding some blankets. Let's get you warmed up.'

'Thank you, messieurs,' said Porthos with a nod to both the miller and the young man, who was probably another son.

'We saw you fighting,' said the son, 'but Papa wouldn't let us help you.'

'Quite right too,' said Porthos as they started to walk towards the cottage.

The miller's son moved to Aramis' other side and helped to support the exhausted man. Porthos looked ahead of them, he could see d'Artagnan and the man who had helped to pull Athos to safety pushing a handcart. The unconscious form of Athos lying across the cart, a couple of empty sacks covering him.

'What did they want?' asked the young man.

Porthos was pleased when Aramis managed to reply.

'Something that was not worth trying to kill our friend for,' he said, his voice was a little slurred, but he was more alert than he had been a few minutes before.

MMMM

'Let them sleep,' said a soft feminine voice. 'You have chores to do. If they want to talk to you about bloodthirsty battle they will when they wake up.'

'Yes mama,' came a young voice.

Some wood creaked. A slight breeze as a door was opened then a return to the warmth that he had woken up to.

'Monsieur Athos?' asked the feminine voice.

Athos slowly opened his eyes. As his vision cleared, he realised he was inside. In a simple cottage. He was lying on the floor, covered in blankets a fire in a small heath next to him providing him with welcome warmth. He could not work out why he was cold or why he was naked under the blankets that were covering him.

'I have some broth if you can manage it. Would you like to sit up?'

Athos managed to look at the owner of the gently lilting voice. A handsome woman in her late thirties was smiling at him. Her dark blonde hair was swept up, stray tendrils were forming a halo around her head. Athos managed a smile. He could think of worse sights to wake up to.

As the woman helped him to sit up, keeping the blankets over him, and leaned him against the wall beside the hearth Athos looked about him. The small room was cluttered with sleeping Musketeers. Porthos was leaning back in a cushioned chair on the opposite side of the hearth. D'Artagnan was asleep leaning forward over the table, his head resting on his arms. And Aramis was stretched out on the floor, next to where he had been lying a few minutes before. Aramis appeared to have been stripped of his clothing as well. Athos looked beyond the three sleeping men and saw a washing line outside the window, his and Aramis' clothing was pegged out to dry.

'What happened?' Athos asked, looking at the woman.

She smiled again, 'they said you might not remember everything. Do you remember being in a fight with some men?'

Athos nodded; he remembered the big man he was fighting knew what he was doing. He remembered catching his foot on a loose rock and stumbling. The man had been quick, the last thing he remembered was the man twisting his sword ready to strike him with its pommel.

Athos guessed that was why his head hurt. He reached up to feel his head. The woman gently stopped him, guiding his hand instead to clutch the cup of broth she had produced. Athos took the broth and sipped at the warm liquid gratefully.

'You were knocked out and thrown in the river, you were in danger of being swept into the mill run. Aramis jumped in after you and managed to get you to the bank. Porthos and d'Artagnan managed to pull you both out.'

Athos looked at each of his brothers in turn, realising what they had done to save him. Each man had risked his life for him. Athos was grateful. He wanted to thank them but knew it would wait until they had woken up from what, he suspected, was much-needed rest.

The End

**Whumpee(s): Athos and, to a lesser extent, Aramis. Featuring all four.**

**Authors note: there may have been a little inspiration for this one after seeing 'Rosmerholm' earlier in the year. If you saw it you will know what I mean.**


	5. Gunpoint

**Gunpoint**

'I'll kill him,' said the man, whose voice was shaking as much as his gun hand.

'What will that gain?' asked Porthos, his voice calm in comparison.

D'Artagnan wanted to look around but could not take his eyes off the young man and his gun. D'Artagnan was breathing hard, he stared up at the man with the gun. The gun that was pointed squarely at his head. He was too close for the man to miss but too far to be able to tackle the man quickly enough to prevent being shot.

D'Artagnan was helpless. He had to rely entirely on his friends to save him, but that was a risky proposition.

He guessed Aramis and Athos would be poised to shoot the man with the gun, but what if the robber pulled the trigger as he was shot. D'Artagnan would not be able to avoid being hit. It was a risk neither Musketeer would want to take.

The twitchy man was shaking, d'Artagnan watched his finger on the trigger of the gun for a few seconds before trying to make eye contact with the gunman again. The man was looking ahead of him. D'Artagnan risked a quick glance in the same direction and saw Porthos who was standing a few feet away, too far to grab the gun but close enough to talk calmly to the man.

He looked back at the gunman, D'Artagnan could see fear in the eyes of the man, who was younger than him, not much more than a boy. It was clear the man regretted his actions, regretted becoming a criminal, probably regretted killing other people. But it was too late now. There was only one place the young man was going. All that had to be decided was how many people he would have killed before he went there.

Was d'Artagnan to be his final victim?

They had been returning from a mission when the whole sordid affair had begun. They knew there had been reports of robbers in the area but did not believe they would be targeted. D'Artagnan was ahead of the others who were having a jovial argument over which was the better tavern in the town they had stayed in the previous night. D'Artagnan had left his friends to it and urged his horse onward, enjoying the calm before they got back into the city.

He was always vigilant, but to be attacked from above had come as a shock. A man had dropped from a leaf-covered branch above him. D'Artagnan's horse had reared, throwing them both to the ground. The man had managed to twist him around as they fell, forcing him to land facedown. D'Artagnan had landed heavily, the air knocked out of him. He felt hands on his neck but was not in a good enough position to fight the man off. As he had gathered his wits, he heard shouting and a gunshot. The man that had been trying to throttle him crashed to the ground a few feet away. When none of his brothers rushed forward to check on his wellbeing, d'Artagnan knew there was more to the attack. He managed to twist onto his back and found himself staring at the dangerous end of a gun.

The shaking man had stared at him for several seconds before looking at the rest of the Musketeers. It was obvious he knew he and his fellow robber had attacked the wrong people, but he did not know what to do.

'Give me your money,' said the man.

D'Artagnan wondered if the shock of what he was doing had left the young man unable to think straight and he had slipped back to what he was used to; stealing.

'That ain't happening and you know it,' said Porthos taking a step forward.

'Keep back.'

'Why don't you give me the gun?' asked Porthos as he took another step forward.

The young man shifted slightly, glancing at d'Artagnan for a second before looking back at Porthos. The man wore reasonable clothing, some of it was the wrong size for the man's slight frame, d'Artagnan guessed the clothing was stolen. He wondered what might have happened to the previous owners. He knew the man that had pulled him from his horse had been prepared to kill him, the pair of robbers were probably responsible for several attacks in the area.

'I... I can't...back off...tell them to drop their guns…'

The young man was unsure of himself.

'Did he make you? Did he tell you to attack people?' asked Porthos.

The young man's eyes shifted to the right, d'Artagnan knew the other robber had fallen to the right. He guessed the man was dead, he had not had a chance to see the man.

'Was he related to you?' asked Porthos.

D'Artagnan heard his friend take another step forward the gravel on the road crunching slightly with the step. The gunman shifted again, his gun arm wavering slightly, the gun would be feeling heavy to the young man.

'He was...my Uncle,' said the man quietly.

'But you didn't really want to attack people, did you?' suggested Porthos.

When Porthos stepped forward again he appeared on the periphery of d'Artagnan's vision. Porthos did not look down, he just looked at the gunman, he was holding his hands out showing the man that he was not holding a weapon. He was still too far away to grab the man.

The young man shook his head, 'he said I would never amount to anything, that I had to learn to fend for myself.'

For a few seconds, the young man's concentration dropped, his focus was lost as he remembered things that were not pleasant. Porthos took advantage, taking another full step forward. He was within arm's reach of the man who shuffled back slightly, aiming the wavering gun firmly at d'Artagnan again.

'Get back,' he said with renewed firmness, trying to get control of the situation again.

D'Artagnan knew that it was Porthos who was in control of the situation though. The young man had relinquished any control he had when he had opened up a little to the Musketeer.

Porthos shook his head and reached forward for the gun, the young man stared at Porthos as the gun was taken from his hand. D'Artagnan had expected the man to try to run away but he simply remained where he was. Porthos held the gun out behind him, d'Artagnan did not see who took it from him. The young man allowed Porthos to take him firmly by the arm and lead him a few steps away. Athos appeared, tucking the gun into his belt, his own gun still held loosely in his right hand.

A presence at his side made d'Artagnan look away from Porthos, Athos and the gunman. Aramis had knelt by him and was busy pouring water onto a cloth.

'Where are you hurt?'

D'Artagnan looked at him for a few seconds. The last few minutes had distracted him completely from his own wellbeing. With the risk of being shot in the head taking precedence over worrying about any injuries.

'I don't know,' he managed to reply.

'Sit up slowly, you fell hard,' said Aramis with obvious concern.

As his friend helped him to sit up, he looked across to Porthos and Athos who were restraining the gunman. The young man was staring at the body of his Uncle who had been shot in the head, blood pooling under him. Porthos still had his hand around the slight young man's arm, although d'Artagnan did not think the man would run from them.

Aramis used the dampened cloth to wipe at a graze on d'Artagnan's face that he had not been aware of. He looked at his hands, realising he was already showing signs of bruises, along with numerous grazes. He felt the back of his neck where the man had tried to strangle him, he knew he would be sore for a few days.

'I'm sorry, I didn't see him,' said d'Artagnan.

'I don't think any of us would have seen that attack coming,' replied Aramis. 'Porthos was quick to shoot the man, but in the chaos of those few seconds, we weren't able to stop the other one from getting close to you with his gun. We should be apologising to you.'

D'Artagnan had felt at fault for the situation but realised that Aramis was correct, none of them could have stopped it. He looked over to Porthos and the young man. They were talking quietly; the young man was crying. D'Artagnan had not realised how young the man was. After a few more seconds of talking the young man had nodded at Porthos, he looked suddenly very weak. Porthos put one arm around the man, pulling him in for an embrace.

'What is Porthos saying?' asked d'Artagnan.

Aramis sighed, 'I suspect your attacker has asked what will happen to him-'

'And Porthos has told him,' said d'Artagnan before Aramis could finish.

Aramis nodded.

'What a waste,' said d'Artagnan.

They watched as Athos walked up to them, his expression grim.

'Before you start,' he said, 'I agree, the lad does appear to have been led on. But he was complicit in the attack and was no doubt involved in others. There have been attacks on this stretch of road for several weeks that have resulted in a number of deaths. I am in no doubt that he will hang.'

D'Artagnan nodded. Whilst he hated the idea that the young man had been coerced into robbing people, the law dictated the penalty for such crimes.

'Porthos and I will go ahead with the prisoner to the next town, he will be handed over to the authorities there.'

D'Artagnan watched as Athos walked his and Porthos' horses passed. Porthos tied the prisoner to his horse before mounting up and walking with him along the road.

'Try not to think about it,' said Aramis.

'Difficult not to,' replied d'Artagnan as he watched his attacker being walked towards his fate.

The End.

**Whumpee: D'Artagnan. Featuring all four.**

**Authors note: There will be more to this story in a later chapter.**


	6. Dragged Away

**Dragged Away**

Aramis was exhausted. He knew he was not the only exhausted soldier. He was trying to carry on, trying to help his comrades, but he was not sure how long he could carry on.

Getting separated had been his first mistake, getting shot had been his second. Although getting shot was not really a mistake, but he would forever wonder if he had left himself open to the enemy fire.

He had been forced to rip his new shirt to create a makeshift bandage. The ball was still in the wound, but he did not have the skill to get it out. He had seen it done, even assisted the field surgeon by holding men down, but he had never done it himself.

Looking at the rip in his breeches he wondered if he could sew it himself. The field surgeon had started to teach him to stitch wounds using scraps of cloth to start with. Aramis had been pleased when the surgeon had nodded his approval of his work, saying he would make a fine field medic one day.

Deciding that his breeches would have to wait, Aramis considered his real problem; getting to his feet and getting back to his fellow soldiers.

He knew there were other regiments in the area. All he needed to do was find soldiers who were on his side.

A stout looking stick, a small branch from one of the nearby trees was lying a few feet away. He shuffled himself towards it, reaching it and pulling it towards him. As he was about to pull himself up to stand he became aware of someone watching him.

'I'm bored with shooting people. Killing men from afar.'

The man sneered; he was loosely holding a gun at his side. The enemy soldier had blood spattered over his uniform. Aramis was sure it did not belong to the soldier.

Aramis realised what his third mistake was.

He had not reloaded his own gun.

As he frantically pulled the weapon from his belt, impeded by his loose shirt and undone doublet the enemy soldier moved forward.

The sneering man reached him. He did not pause, he simply kicked Aramis' hands away, before bending over him and roughly pulling the gun from him.

'You could do with better weapons than this,' said the man, his French tinged with a Spanish accent.

The man twisted slightly showing off the second gun he had pushed into his belt. The gun in his hand had an elaborate handle, an attractive design inlaid in the grip.

'I was watching you,' the man continued, 'you're a good shot. Too good for your regiment. If you were on my side, I'd put you in a regiment of gunmen.'

Aramis stared at the man, before glancing at his hand, bloodied by the assault. The man's boot had left his fingers and knuckles bleeding and bruised.

The man moved around him. Aramis watched him. The man reached down and grabbed the back of his doublet. Shocked, Aramis struggled to free himself. The man dragged him further from the battlefield, further from his friends, further from help.

He tried to pull the man's hands off him. The man let him go and turned around, kicking him hard. The kick to his chest left him breathless and disorientated. He realised he was being dragged again, over the rough terrain, the rocks agitating his injured leg. He tried to twist free again. The enemy soldier would not let him go.

After what felt like an eternity the man dropped him. Aramis knew he could not fight. Flight was his only option, he twisted onto his front and tried to pull his knees up, tried to stand. His attempt at escape was short-lived. The soldier's boot on the back of his wounded leg had him cry out in pain, as he was pushed back to the ground.

'Don't worry,' said his attacker. 'No one will hear you. You can scream as much as you like. I only hear screams from a distance. And the men I shoot. They don't have time to scream.'

The man pushed down on Aramis' injured leg again. Feeling like a frightened animal Aramis tried to scrabble away. The pressure was removed. The man moved to his side, slipping his boot under him, lifting him slightly. Aramis tried to resist as the man bent down and pushed him onto his back. Aramis looked up at him, the man, a few years older than himself, looked down at him.

'How shall I kill you?' he asked. 'I could shoot you. I could shoot you over and over, just take little chunks out of you. It would take you hours to die…'

Aramis watched the man slowly and expertly check his fancy guns were primed and ready to fire.

'Or, we could get more friendly…'

The man paused, he slipped his guns into his belt and slowly eased his parrying dagger out. The vicious sneer never leaving his lips.

'I've never killed a man from up close before. Never been close enough to see them take their last breath. You can give me that.'

Aramis could not take his eyes off the man. The man that was going to kill him.

Aramis was sure he was going to die. He started to pray, silently. He did not want to give the enemy soldier the satisfaction of seeing his fear, although he suspected he might not have succeeded.

'Best soften you up a bit first,' said the man.

Aramis tensed up as he was kicked, several times, by the man. He tried to curl up, to move away, to lessen the effect of the assault. The soldier stopped, he laughed; laughed at the soldier lying helpless at his feet.

The enemy crouched down, leaning over Aramis. He wielded the parrying dagger, twisting it through the air over Aramis' face. Aramis blinked and tried to turn away as the tip of the blade was moved mere inches from his eyes. The man used his left hand to hold Aramis still. The blade was pressed lightly against his forehead. He managed to move his head, hissing in pain as the sharp tip was dragged over his skin. He blinked as blood trickled into his eyes.

The enemy chuckled. Aramis managed to look at the man. The man was looking at the blood, Aramis' blood, as it dripped off the dagger.

'Where shall I put it?' mused the man.

He began to rest the blade on various parts of Aramis' body, his shoulder, his stomach, his chest.

'A bit like shooting you, I could cut you in such a way that you would bleed slowly for hours. I've seen a dog that had been cut across the back, unable to move properly...I wonder what would happen if I broke your back, slashed you deeply…'

The soldier moved the dagger to rest on Aramis' neck, pressing down slowly. Aramis could feel the blade pushing into him.

'Maybe I'll just slit your throat?'

The End.

**Authors note: Don't panic, you will find out what happened next in chapter 17.**

**Whumpee: Aramis.**


	7. Isolation

**Isolation **

The darkness was pressing in on him. He could not breathe. He could not see, only blackness. There was no light. Nothing. Just inky nothingness. Would he ever see light again? And if he did, would it be only long enough for them to kill him? There was no way out. He could not undo the ropes that bound him, even if he did, there would be a man guarding the door. They would not want him to escape, he was too useful to them.

But the need to escape, the nothingness was too great. He had to try. He struggled he pulled at his bindings. But he could not get out.

The darkness was pressing him down, smothering him.

He wanted to scream…

MMMM

'D'Artagnan! Wake up!'

Aramis shook the struggling man a second time, holding him firmly, trying to stop him lashing out and hitting him accidentally. The blanket was tangled around him, keeping one arm firmly to the young man's side, d'Artagnan continued to pull at the blanket trying to free his trapped arm. Aramis shook his friend again.

They had camped in a secluded thick spinney. Not much light had penetrated the camp, leaving them in total darkness before they had turned in. They were prepared for it, they ate in the dwindling light and made sure they had all that they would need at hand for when the light faded completely. The moonless night had not helped them, but they were far safer tucked away in the tangled spinney than they would have been camping at the side of the road. Aramis had noticed a slight reluctance from d'Artagnan as they had pushed into the spinney and found a clearing at its centre large enough for them both to lay out their bedrolls. Aramis had put it down to the fatigue they were both feeling. Circumstances had conspired against them and left them forced to walk many miles back to Paris, a feat they could not manage in one day. They had settled back on their bedrolls. Aramis knew he would fall asleep quickly, the walking and fatigue winning out over any attempt at keeping a watch.

When he had been woken by moaning from the man next to him it had taken Aramis a few seconds to work out where he was and what was going on. He was forced to feel for d'Artagnan by fingertip.

'D'Artagnan?' he said as he gently shook the obviously distressed man.

'Please…' d'Artagnan sounded almost childlike, a real terror in his shaking voice.

'D'Artagnan! Wake up!' the second shake still had no effect.

As Aramis' eyes became accustomed to the dim light of the dawn creeping into their secluded camp, he noticed the tangle of blankets and bedroll, the sheen of sweat on d'Artagnan's skin and the look of distress on his face.

A more forceful shake finally woke the young Musketeer. Aramis kept hold of him as he gasped for breath for a few seconds, looking around wide-eyed, desperately trying to orientate himself back into the land of the wakeful.

'Look at me...you're safe...d'Artagnan calm your breathing...slow down or you'll pass out.'

D'Artagnan managed to focus on him and nodded. Aramis could see the younger man's face flushed with embarrassment. But all Aramis felt was concern for the man as he looked away.

'What were you dreaming about? It must have been very vivid for you to react like that.'

It took d'Artagnan a few moments to collect himself enough to answer. He did not make eye contact as he spoke.

'It's...it's since we were taken by those devil worshippers,' he said, his voice faltering frequently. 'Ever since...I've...I've been...just before they took me and tied me to that altar…'

Aramis waited patiently for d'Artagnan to get his thoughts in order.

'Before they took me to the room with the altar…they left me tied up in a dark room. Totally dark. There wasn't even light coming under the door. There was nothing...and no sound...I... I'm scared of the dark now.'

D'Artagnan had not managed to look at Aramis once during his stuttered explanation.

'Why didn't you say this was bothering you?'

D'Artagnan finally looked at him, a look of shame on his face.

'I didn't want to be laughed at.'

Aramis smiled, 'we wouldn't have laughed at you. Why would we laugh? You were very nearly killed. There was no way you could have escaped them. You had every right to be scared. Just because we are Musketeers, the best of the best does not make us unbreakable.'

D'Artagnan just looked at him, he obviously did not know what to say.

'If you had said before we camped, we could have camped somewhere a bit more open, where the light would not have gone completely. We could have lit a fire,' Aramis sighed, 'you do not have to suffer in silence. We look out for each other. It's what we do. You do it without even realising.'

D'Artagnan furrowed his brow slightly with confusion.

'After Savoy,' Aramis continued, 'I found the cold affected me more than it used to. It's probably in my head, but I feel it more than the rest of you do. I've seen you move to be on the side of the cold wind, shielding me from it as best you can. D'Artagnan you weren't even with the garrison when the massacre happened...but you've worked out that the cold affects me, and you try to protect me from it…'

The young Musketeer looked away, Aramis could almost see him thinking about what he had said, realising he had been doing what had been described.

'Now,' said Aramis, 'as long as the dark is something that you are not comfortable with, we will try not to let you be alone in it. We can leave a candle burning when we share a room at a tavern. If we can we'll light a fire when we camp. If we cannot, we will look out for you, keep close to you, make sure you know you are not alone. Because you are not, d'Artagnan.'

'Thank you,' said d'Artagnan quietly.

'And you must not feel inadequate for the fear you had that you would die helplessly...we've all been there as well. I don't think you are truly a soldier until you have felt that crippling fear. I will tell you my story of utter helplessness one day.'

D'Artagnan nodded, managing a smile.

'Right. We still have a long walk ahead of us. I, at least, had a good few hours of sleep, so I will stay awake now. Try to sleep for a little longer. I don't want you keeling over, exhausted, before we reach Paris...if you do that, I will laugh at you.'

D'Artagnan smiled again, 'I'll do my best.'

Aramis moved away from the younger man's side as d'Artagnan straightened out his bedroll and blankets before lying back down. Aramis could tell he was asleep within minutes.

The End.

**Whumpee: D'Artagnan. Featuring Aramis.**

**Authors note: The events that led to d'Artagnan's phobia are taken from my story 'Best Laid Plans'.**


	8. Stab Wound

**Stab Wound**

'What's this?' said the Red Guardsman.

Porthos could not help a wry smile and a tilt of his head as the sandy-haired man picked the playing card from his sleeve.

'You're cheating. Cheating. Musketeer.'

One of the other Guardsman, who Porthos was just about on talking terms with, laughed.

'Did you actually think you would get a fair game from him? Porthos, the soldier-thief,' the older man said.

Porthos knew the man meant it as a compliment, but the sandy-haired soldier looked furious. Porthos decided it was time to leave. The older guardsman stopped the man from rising, a restraining hand on his arm. Porthos tipped his hat as he walked away after graciously leaving what he would have won on the table.

He stepped out, into the chilly night air. Porthos was no fool, he would be vigilant. He knew the Red Guardsman was likely to try to catch him up for a physical rematch as he made his way to the garrison.

Porthos walked purposefully through the quiet streets. He smiled when he heard footsteps behind him. The quiet road would make a good spot to show the guardsman that he was superior. Porthos knew the slight man would be no match for him with either a blade or his fists. The chances of the man shooting him was slim. Leaving a soldier seriously injured would be frowned upon by the senior officers of both regiments.

The footsteps stopped, Porthos turned.

The man in front of him was not the Red Guardsman. Porthos did not know the man. He was about to speak, to ask what the man wanted, but he did not get the chance.

Porthos did not have time to react. He caught a glimpse of steel, he managed to grab the man's wrist, but he was not quick enough to prevent the short blade being plunged into his shoulder, he was glad he had deflected it away from his chest.

The attacker, a short stocky man, brought his knee up, hitting Porthos in the stomach, before pushing him back and punching him. Porthos was surprised to have been attacked. He knew he would get a lot of teasing about it. As he stumbled back, he caught his heel on rough stone and crashed to the ground.

The short man was quick to kick him in the chest, leaving him winded. The man then simply relieved Porthos of his money and weapons, before kicking him again and running off.

Porthos stared at the dark sky above him, he blinked a few times. Pain radiated from his shoulder; the small knife was still in the wound.

After a few minutes, Porthos knew simply lying on the cold ground was not going to help him. With a groan, he slowly pushed himself up to sit. He reached up and felt his cheek, his fingers came away bloody. He sighed, much as he would have liked to deal with his assortment of injuries himself, he knew he could not. The one thing in his favour was that he was only a couple of streets away from Aramis' rooms.

He knew his friend would be in, the Musketeer had returned from a lengthy mission that afternoon and been given a day's leave to rest. Aramis had looked shattered when he had returned to the garrison.

With several stifled moans, Porthos got to his feet and started to make his way along the road.

He only hoped he could get there without any further issues.

MMMM

Aramis had just been drifting off to sleep, he had taken a long time to settle after his return from over a week away. The mission had been quite tense, and he had been forced to keep his wits about him constantly. Now that he was finally able to relax, without any threat to his life, he had found it difficult to do so.

The knock on the door to his rooms had forced him into instant alertness. He grabbed his gun and walked to the door, noting how cold it was with only his underclothes on. He was not expecting visitors. He opened the door slowly, keeping the gun out of sight but readily available.

As Porthos was revealed on the other side of the door Aramis relaxed for a few seconds until he saw the state of his friend. Quickly opening the door fully and discarding his gun on a table he reached out to help his ailing friend into his rooms and into the cushioned chair by the hearth.

'Sorry,' said Porthos, 'I wasn't sure I'd have made it back to the garrison.'

'How did you end up like this?' asked Aramis unable to hide his incredulity.

Porthos looked at the knife in his shoulder for a few seconds before replying.

'I got robbed,' he said.

Aramis stifled a laugh, 'sorry,' he said.

'I know,' replied Porthos, 'I am expecting to be hearing about this for weeks.'

Aramis nodded, 'oh, I think it will be longer than that, my friend.'

Porthos managed a smile. Aramis stepped back and made a quick assessment of his friend, trying to work out where to start. The knife was a worry, but he did not know where or how else his friend had been injured. Porthos seemed to realise the problem.

'I've been kicked and punched and stabbed,' he said. 'And I fell over.'

'I'm going to have to cut your doublet,' said Aramis.

'You will not,' retorted Porthos.

Aramis had expected his friend to complain. He leaned forward and undid Porthos' doublet for him, his friend knew better than to interfere as he worked. Aramis carefully eased the leather away, noting the hiss of pain from Porthos as he did so.

'Alright,' said Aramis. 'I don't know how much the wound will bleed when I take the knife out. I'll need to get a temporary bandage on it quickly...if you fight me, I will knock you out.'

Porthos looked at him for a few seconds, 'understood,' he said.

Shaking his head, Aramis left his friend in the chair. He returned to his bedroom and quickly dressed, pulling on breeches and a shirt.

He gathered what he would need to tend to the assortment of injuries. He picked up a bottle of wine and two cups, not trusting his friend at that moment with one of his few glasses. He poured a generous amount into each cup, put one aside for himself, giving the other to Porthos who took a few sips before setting the cup down.

Aramis pushed a wadded-up bandage into Porthos left hand before guiding his hand to be a few inches from the stab wound.

'Get the bandage on straight away, I'll ease your sleeve off. And I mean it if you fight me-'

'You'll knock me out. I know,' grumbled Porthos before biting down on a piece of leather Aramis had handed him.

Aramis gave his friend a wry smile before grasping the small knife firmly. He made eye contact with his friend who took a deep breath and nodded. Aramis pulled hard on the knife, keeping his other hand on Porthos' chest pinning him to the chair. Porthos had tensed up as the knife was pulled from his shoulder, he groaned in pain, screwing his eyes shut. Aramis pushed Porthos' wrist to the wound, inside his doublet and shirt and pressed his hand and the bandage down for a few seconds until he knew Porthos had regained enough sense to keep the bandage firmly in place.

'Let's get your jacket off then,' said Aramis as Porthos managed to calm his breathing.

It took Aramis longer than he would have liked to get Porthos' doublet off him when he eased his friend back in the chair his expression was one of pain. Aramis decided he would give Porthos a chance to recover his wits before trying to relieve him of any more of his clothes. He readied a needle and thread before gently peeling his friend's hand from the stab wound. Porthos hissed.

'It doesn't look as bad as it could have been,' mused Aramis.

'Bloody hurts though,' replied Porthos who had finally opened his eyes.

Aramis handed him his cup of wine as he prepared to clean the wound. Porthos took another swig from the cup as Aramis damped a couple of cloths with spirit and water.

'Ready?'

Porthos nodded, before swearing quietly as Aramis quickly cleaned the wound.

'Do not lash out at me,' Aramis reiterated as he wielded the needle.

'It was once. People will think I have a reputation-'

'You knocked me to the floor, Porthos. If Athos hadn't hit you, I don't think I could have got the stitches done that time.'

Porthos had the good sense to look contrite, Aramis hid a smile. He carefully put the first stitch in, watching for any adverse reaction from his friend. Porthos stoically remained still, although he was very tense, Aramis suspected he would end up pulling muscles in his attempt to behave as his injuries were tended to. Fortunately, the small puncture wound only needed four stitches to close it. After wrapping a bandage around Porthos' shoulder Aramis stood back.

'Thank you,' said Porthos quietly.

'You're welcome, let's get the rest of the grazes cleaned up and then you can rest. You're staying here tonight so that I can keep an eye on you.'

Porthos paused, looking at Aramis quizzically before speaking again, 'why did you get dressed?' he asked. 'It's not like you needed to go out to get help.'

Aramis sighed, trying to hide the embarrassment he felt, 'because, Porthos, if you had hit out at me and knocked me out...or killed me, and then you'd collapsed and died...I didn't want my body to be found in a state of undress. I have a reputation to maintain.'

Porthos laughed between winces, 'I won't tease you about that... if you don't tease me about getting robbed?'

Aramis rolled his eyes before nodding with a smile.

The End.

**Whumpee: Porthos. Featuring Aramis.**


	9. Shackled

**Shackled **

'You can't leave him like that,' said Aramis.

Gallo looked at him, his beady eyes glinting in the torchlight.

'I can, Senor, and I will. He annoyed me with his pathetic attempt to escape. A shame he felt obliged to wait for you...you should blame yourself. He could have got out, if you had not been too slow, he would not now be locked in a cellar with you...hanging, upside down...by his ankles.'

Gallo laughed as he pulled the heavy wooden door closed.

'It's not your fault, Aramis,' said Porthos from behind him.

'No,' replied Aramis. 'It's yours. You should have run; you could have got away. But no. You stopped to help me and then you had a go at Gallo and his men, rather than taking the opportunity to go-'

'They'd have killed you.'

'And now, we'll probably both be killed. If they don't come back and let you down...do you know how horrible it will be to die in that position?' Aramis paused for a few seconds before saying quietly, '...and I have to watch.'

Porthos did not respond, Aramis wondered why he was being as confrontational as he was. His guilt was making him argumentative with the man that had saved his life and sacrificed his own in the process.

If he had not fallen on the steps, not crashed to the ground, not twisted his ankle and been left unable to move at speed, they could have got away. A simple fall had left them with no way out.

Porthos, who was able to push himself up slightly by his hands, was watching him.

'I ain't dead yet,' said Porthos. 'And you know it will take a while. I'll admit I can't do anything to aide our escape, but you can…'

Aramis stared at him; he could not even begin to guess what Porthos was getting at. His friend was clearly delusional. They were locked in a cellar with a heavy wooden door and no windows. Porthos was restrained with manacles on his ankles and currently dangling in the middle of the room. The other end of the chain was outside of the room, there was no way Aramis could get his friend down.

Porthos sighed, 'Pick. The. Lock. On. The. Door.'

It took Aramis far longer than it should have for him to realise his friend was correct. He was surprised he had not thought of it himself, the narrow blade in his boot was digging into his swollen ankle. They had not been searched thoroughly.

'Sorry,' Aramis said as he pulled the narrow blade free.

'I'm sorry I didn't just let them kill you,' replied Porthos.

'Apology accepted,' said Aramis, feeling some of his usual bravado return.

Porthos was correct, the odds were against them, but they could not just give up. He looked at the blade for a few seconds before hobbling towards the door and kneeling by the lock, he peered through, remembering all that Porthos had taught him about lock picking.

'It is bad?' asked Porthos from behind him.

Aramis thought his friend's breathing already sounded a little laboured. He decided not to comment, knowing he might have to intervene to prolong their chances of both getting out alive, something he knew Porthos would not like.

'It's not broken, but I'll be limping for a bit,' he replied.

Porthos muttered something in response but left Aramis in peace to concentrate on picking the lock. Aramis had quickly decided that he would be able to pick the lock it would just take patience and a steady hand. As he worked, he listened intently to Porthos' breathing. Aramis knew that his friend would start to suffer due to the position their captor had left him in.

Knowing that to try to keep up a conversation would cost Porthos valuable breaths Aramis tried to concentrate on the lock with an occasional glance at his friend. When he noticed Porthos had closed his eyes and was not supporting his weight on his hands any longer Aramis knew he had to act.

He slipped the dagger into his belt and limped back to his friend.

'Porthos?'

Porthos opened his eyes, 'mm still here,' he mumbled.

Aramis moved behind his friend and crouched down, grabbing Porthos by the arms and pushing him up awkwardly so that he was not hanging completely upside down. The position was not comfortable, particularly as he could not spread his own weight evenly between both legs due to his injured ankle. It took Porthos a few seconds to work out what had happened.

'What good is that going to do?' he asked. 'If you're here, holding me vaguely upright, you're not picking the lock.'

'And if you're left to dangle, you'll die…'

'You should leave me-'

'Like you left me?'

Porthos did not respond.

'We don't know how long they'll be before they come back...if they come back...and I don't know how long it will take me to pick that lock.'

Porthos looked towards the door, 'and you don't know if you'll even be able to get me down after you get out…'

Aramis reluctantly agreed.

'I'm feeling better now,' said Porthos after another few seconds.

Aramis carefully lowered his friend back into the uncomfortable inverted position and after ensuring he was steady returned to the door.

MMMM

Porthos watched his friend working, he had every faith that Aramis would be able to pick the lock. The door might have been a heavy one, but the lock was relatively simple. With his steady hand and calm approach, Aramis would have the door open in no time, provided he did not keep stopping to help him. He tried not to let his difficulty breathing be too obvious, but knew he was failing when Aramis looked back at him several times.

The position Gallo had cruelly left him was both humiliating and clever. It left him unable to do anything to help in any escape attempt and meant that Aramis was distracted worrying about him.

He blinked a few times, feeling the room spin, he knew the room was not spinning, his hands were resting on the stone floor keeping him still. It was him that felt dizzy. The manacles on his ankles were digging into him, he would probably end up hobbling as much as Aramis was if he managed to get free of them. His head felt heavy, he knew he was starting to pass out again, but did not want to worry Aramis who was close to getting the door open. Porthos made an effort to push himself up slightly but failed, causing the chains to clink slightly, the noise amplified by the stone walls.

Aramis looked around, Porthos had failed to keep quiet enough not to distract his friend. He wanted to tell him to keep at the door lock, but all he managed was a slurred, mumbled sentence that meant nothing.

The hobbling Musketeer walked back to him and pulled him up again, Porthos could tell Aramis was struggling. Hauling a fully-grown man into a semi-upright position whilst they were restrained by the ankles was not something that could be practised. Porthos could do nothing to help his friend and as his ability to speak seemed to have left him, all he could do was hope that the dizziness would leave him and his ability to communicate succinctly would return so that he could tell Aramis to leave him and concentrate on the lock.

Porthos had no idea how long Aramis managed to hold him up but he did not feel much better when his friend finally seemed to admit defeat and lowered him back down. Porthos mumbled his thanks but did not trust himself to manage a full sentence.

Aramis went back to the lock.

MMMM

Aramis lost count of the number of times he paused his work on the lock and returned to pull Porthos into at least a level position for a few minutes. His friend was clearly suffering from the inversion and the pain of being left hanging by his ankles. Aramis wished he could get the lock to open. He knew he was not far off.

After gently lowering Porthos back to the ground he limped back to the door, picking up the dagger again and going back to work. He paused listening intently.

'Wha…?' slurred Porthos.

'They're coming back,' Aramis said as he stepped back from the door, carefully sliding the dagger back into his boot ensuring it was far enough down so as not to be seen.

A key turned in the lock, Aramis sighed, he had been close to unlocking it, he would probably have to start again.

The door was pushed open. Gallo appeared with a couple of his thuggish men, the one who had lost an eye, and the one that had decided to kick Aramis when he had fallen before they were captured. The kicking man was of big build and had managed to leave Aramis with a bruised side that he was not telling Porthos about.

The one-eyed man raised his gun, levelling it at Porthos. Aramis shook his head and slowly backed away. Gallo chuckled.

'I just wondered how you were getting on with the lock?'

Aramis and Porthos, who had managed to rouse himself enough to pay attention, tried not to react. Gallo held out his hand to Aramis as the one-eyed man moved closer to Porthos.

'Hand it over and I will let your friend down,' said Gallo as he stopped in front of Aramis.

'Just give it to him...he deserves it,' said Porthos, who had managed to push himself up slightly again.

Aramis glanced at Porthos, watched his hand sliding slowly towards the one-eyed man who had stopped a little too close to him. Aramis understood Porthos' intent and agreed with the idea. They had nothing to lose.

He slowly bent towards his boot, slipping his fingers in and easing the blade out. He made a point of wincing in pain as he did so. Gallo took the bait.

'Poor Musketeer with a poorly ankle. Not going to run away again, are you?'

With lightning speed Aramis struck, the momentary distraction caused by his gloating meant Gallo was not ready for the dagger to be used on him. Aramis considered what he and Porthos were trying to do to be obvious. But Gallo had underestimated them, he was not quick enough to step back and got to feel the full length of the narrow blade plunging into his stomach. It was not enough to stop the man from fighting back, Aramis knew it would take a while to have the desired effect, but it had caused confusion and shock around the room.

Porthos had somehow grabbed the one-eyed man and tripped him to the floor, his gun had slid away from both men. Aramis could not keep an eye on his friend, he had two attackers to deal with. The third man, the man that had kicked him, was trying to pull him away from Gallo.

Taking his weight on his injured ankle he kicked the man in the groin as hard as he could. The third man collapsed with a cry of pain. Aramis suspected he might be back before the fight was over with Gallo, but at least he was out of the way for the time being. Gallo was fighting dirty, trying to grab his own weapons whilst pushing and punching Aramis away. The man pushed Aramis back several paces forcing him into the stone wall. Aramis braced himself, using the wall for support. Gallo managed to pull his gun from his belt, but Aramis saw the move and twisted to the side, pinning the other man's right arm, preventing him from accessing the weapon. He hooked his bad ankle around Gallo toppling them both to the floor. Aramis landed on top of Gallo. He took the chance to punch the man several times, leaving him bloodied and stunned.

As he sat back up, he looked across to Porthos who was busy throttling the one-eyed man. Aramis was impressed but the surge of energy his friend was enjoying would not last, they needed to get out quickly.

His thoughts were interrupted by the big man he had kicked rushing at him. The man grabbed Aramis by the arm and dragged him up. Aramis could not get to his feet quick enough; he was shoved into the wall hard, smacking his head on the rough stone. He had no time to recover from the assault before the man was on him again. The big man was angry with Aramis and wanted the Musketeer to know it. He twisted Aramis around and shoved him backwards into the wall before punching him. The punch left Aramis dizzy, he realised the man had lifted him slightly off the ground, keeping him pinned to the wall with one meaty arm. The big man was taller than Aramis who was rapidly realising he would not win in a fistfight against him, not when he was already at a disadvantage. He grabbed at the man's wrist and tried kicking out, but the man tilted his head slightly and smirked. Aramis was not going to get away with kicking him again.

The force of the hand on his chest, just below his neck was leaving Aramis struggling to take a breath. The man pulled back his right hand ready to punch him again, Aramis fully expected to be knocked out by the action. He tried to look for Porthos, but the big man was blocking any view he had of his friend.

As the fisted hand began to move rapidly towards him, Aramis shut his eyes.

MMMM

Porthos was pleased that Aramis had understood his intention. He was confident his friend would be able to deal with the other two men, particularly after he felled the big man with a swift kick.

His own fight was a little harder. He was struggling to breathe and knew he would lose his energy quickly. The one-eyed man was taken by surprise by Porthos, he did not fight back for several seconds. Seconds that Porthos used wisely to grab at the man and move him, pulling him down to the ground. The position was awkward but once Porthos had wrapped his arm around the man's neck he steadfastly remained there. The man thrashed around, tried to claw at Porthos' face but the Musketeer was determined that he would do what he could to get them free. Ultimately their freedom relied on Aramis but Porthos was not beyond contributing.

As he slowly killed the man, a task he did not enjoy, he watched Aramis fighting off Gallo. The man would succumb to the stab wound but it would take him a while. Time which was spent fighting Aramis. The Musketeer was hindered by his injured ankle and no doubt other injuries from his earlier fall, but he managed to knock Gallo out.

Aramis paused for a second, glancing across to him, but his respite was short-lived. The brutish man that had taken pleasure in grabbing Aramis after his fall during their foiled escape attempt, was on him again. The man was probably a little annoyed at being kicked in the groin and clearly wanted to make Aramis pay for the assault. Porthos knew his friend would not win against the brute, not when he was already injured. The man managed to pin Aramis to the wall and punch him, leaving Aramis stunned, blinking and struggling to regain his focus. Porthos knew a second punch would at the very least knock Aramis out if it did not kill him.

He looked around, the gun that the one-eyed man had been brandishing lay a few inches away. He decided he had throttled the one-eyed man long enough, he let go of what he hoped was now a body and not a man who would come around with a headache and a vendetta. The one-eyed man slumped to the floor and did not move.

Porthos reached for the gun, it lay tantalisingly close, he clawed at the stone floor, finding a modicum of purchase, enough to swing him towards the gun. He grabbed it and twisted around. He knew the shot would be difficult and that he would only get one chance. Porthos' main concern was that he did not hit his friend.

He fired.

The shot hit the brute in the back at an angle, penetrating towards his shoulder. It was good enough. The man stumbled forward into Aramis who managed to remain on his feet as the man slumped to the side and collapsed in a heap taking a few gasped breaths before going still.

Aramis was breathing hard, staring at the man for a few seconds.

'Getting me down is the next thing,' said Porthos, who realised his knocked about friend needed to get his focus back.

Aramis looked at him and nodded.

'Yes,' he said, 'thanks.'

The Musketeer pushed himself off the wall and limped to the door of the cell, he peered out for a few seconds before disappearing from sight. Porthos watched as the chain that was holding him upside down moved a little, but not enough.

'I can't loosen it,' called Aramis from outside the cell. 'It's too stiff...that big thug was probably the one who tightened it up.'

Aramis reappeared, he looked around the room for a few seconds before hobbling to the body of Gallo. A pool of blood was forming under him where the wound to his stomach was. Ignoring the blood, Aramis knelt down and rifled through the man's pockets, pulling out the key to the manacles.

Porthos watched with worry as Aramis stood back up, wavering and stumbling to the side as he did so.

'Aramis?'

It took his friend far too long to turn around to face him. Aramis was blinking, he reached up and felt the back of his head.

'Just give me the key,' said Porthos, worried his friend might pass out just out of his reach.

Aramis limped across to him. He reached up to the manacles and pushed the key into the lock. Porthos watched despite his own feelings of dizziness and disorientation returning. When Aramis crumpled to the floor, Porthos was ready, even from his inverted position he managed to guide the injured man down. Aramis remained sat on the floor, his eyes screwed shut.

Porthos looked back up at the key in the lock and knew what he had to do. Taking as much of a breath as he could he slowly pulled himself up, clutching at his breeches. After a few seconds, he felt Aramis' hands on his shoulders steadying him, the help was welcome. He gradually pulled and dragged himself far enough to reach the key. Aramis had managed to get back to his feet, he grabbed Porthos around the shoulders and kept him still as he grabbed the chain just above the manacles. The help from Aramis was just enough for him to turn the key on the first manacle, before easing it from the lock and pushing it into the second. It annoyed him that it took him three tries. With his energy leaving him quickly he turned the key a second time.

The fall was only a couple of feet, and he had the luxury of landing on his friend, but it still left them both winded. Porthos managed to roll off Aramis who was lying on his back with his eyes shut but did not appear to be unconscious.

'We've still got to get out,' said Aramis with a wince.

'But at least the doors open now,' replied Porthos.

Aramis managed a pained chuckle.

Getting out of the room was the least of their problems.

The End.

**Whumpees: Aramis and Porthos.**

**Authors note: this may be tied up with some of the other Whumptober one shots at a later date and made into a proper story.**


	10. Unconscious

**Authors note: thanks for all the comments and follows.**

**Unconscious**

'What caused this?' asked Athos as he grabbed the young stable boy by the scruff of the neck and dragged him out of the way.

The horses continued to whinny and stamp around in an agitated state.

'No idea,' said d'Artagnan as he was forced to take several steps back as a bay mare kicked out.

'Can you see them?' asked Porthos.

The confusion of horses was blocking their view of Aramis and Paul, one of the other stable boys, who they knew were somewhere at the back of the stable.

D'Artagnan had yelled for help when the horses had started to rear up and kick at the walls of the stables. He had managed to grab one of the younger horses by the reins and encourage the beast out of the way but there were still too many horses milling about, knocking into each other for them to get control of the situation.

As d'Artagnan had been guiding the horse out of the stable Aramis had rushed in to try to grab another. He had called out that Paul was lying at the end of the stable. They had not seen Aramis or the stable boy since. D'Artagnan could only guess that Aramis had managed to get to the back of the stable and both he and Paul were now trapped by the worked-up horses.

Athos returned to their side after pushing the other scared stable boy out of the way, 'he said that young Paul was knocked over by the newest horse. He was trying to get the horse into the stall, and it kicked out at him.'

'Aramis!' called Porthos.

'I'm alright,' Aramis shouted back, 'Paul's unconscious. There's no way I can get him out through this.'

'We'll work something out,' said d'Artagnan as he craned his neck for any sight of their friend and the injured boy.

Without warning the horses all started to snort and dip their heads.

'Why are they free?' asked Porthos. 'The lads know what to do.'

'I would imagine we have had an unscrupulous visitor,' remarked Athos.

The prospect that someone had deliberately untied and caused the Musketeer horses to become unnerved annoyed d'Artagnan. Lives were now in danger. On his own, Aramis might have been able to climb out of the way of the worked-up beasts but with the unconscious stable boy to watch out for as well, it would prove difficult for the Musketeer to get away.

D'Artagnan watched as Porthos managed to catch the bridle of another of the calmer horses and lead it towards the stable doors. More men were waiting to take the horse out into the garrison yard.

A shout of pain from the other end of the stable had all three Musketeers again trying to see through the loose hoses which were moving about. D'Artagnan crouched down and peered through the legs of the animals.

'I can see them,' he said.

D'Artagnan had to move frequently to keep Aramis and Paul in sight. The Musketeer was crouched down, he had pulled the boy towards the wall and twisted him away from the horses. At that moment, Aramis was trying to shield them both from the nearest horse, the most worked up of the ones still in the stable. Aramis, who was not wearing his doublet, had been knocked by the horse. His shirt was ripped, a very obvious bruise and cut on his side showing where he had been kicked. He had his arm up trying to push the beast away from them both.

'We need to be faster,' said d'Artagnan as he stood up. 'We can't wait for them to calm down.'

Porthos tried to reach up to another of the horses but the beast moved away. All three of them stepped back quickly when presented with the back end of one of the bigger horses. As they retreated, the horse kicked back where they had been standing.

'I've got an idea,' said Porthos, walking from the stable.

Intrigued, d'Artagnan and Athos followed him. As Porthos moved to the back of the stable d'Artagnan understood.

'They were about here,' he said, pointing at the back of the stable.

The well-built wooden wall looked solid. Porthos banged on it.

'Aramis?'

A muffled reply told them they had been heard, but they could not make out what was being said. Porthos stepped back slightly when a loud thud knocked on the wall from the other side.

'Here,' said Athos who had disappeared for a few seconds.

He handed them each an axe. Porthos pointed to an area about four feet to the right of where they thought Aramis and Paul were pinned down.

'I hope he hasn't moved,' said Porthos as he swung the axe.

The noise of the axe hitting the wood disturbed the horses further, but Porthos swung again. D'Artagnan joined him, hitting the next plank of wood, watching as the blade of the axe embedded itself but did not go through. He knew it would take them a while to break through, he hoped they would not take too long.

Another yell of pain and something that might have been swearing from Aramis could be heard.

'I think he's been kicked again,' said Barbotin who had been with another couple of the Musketeers trying to persuade the horses out of the stable.

Porthos stepped back and allowed Athos to take a turn on the plank of wood he had been hitting. They were making progress, but it was painfully slow, d'Artagnan wondered where Aramis had been hit the second time if he was knocked out as well there would be no one to stop the horses from stamping on both him and Paul.

The sound of cracking wood on the plank Athos had been working on was a welcome sound. Porthos took over from d'Artagnan for a few seconds and succeeded in breaking through the second plank. D'Artagnan kicked the splintered wood in before crouching down by the gap they had made. He could see horses legs a few yards away, he risked leaning through the hole, Aramis and the stable boy were lying a couple of feet away. Aramis managed to twist around to look back at him.

'Got me on the knee that time,' he said with a grimace, 'can't bend my leg.'

D'Artagnan could see that Aramis was in a lot of pain. He shifted so that he was lying on his front and wriggled through the hole they had made; he could feel hands on his waist ready to pull him back if one of the worked up horses strayed too close.

Aramis managed to move enough to drag the unconscious stable boy closer to the improvised exit. D'Artagnan grabbed the boy under the arms and heaved him back, glad that whoever had hold of his waist had worked out what was going on. He was inelegantly dragged back out of the hole, pulling the young boy with him. Between the three of them, they hauled the dead weight free of the stable.

Barbotin and Luc were there. Luc picked up Paul with ease and carried him off, towards the infirmary, Barbotin walked at his side, looking at the nasty bruise and cut to the boy's head. As the two Musketeers carried the stable boy away, they saw him start to come around, trying to touch his head and being gently stopped by Barbotin.

Satisfied that Paul was safe the Musketeers turned their attention to the boy's initial saviour, who now needed his own rescue. D'Artagnan wasted no time crawling back through the gap in the wall.

Aramis was trying to drag himself out of the way of the horses which seemed to have become angrier now that their captives were escaping. The closest one reared up over Aramis, who somehow managed to twist his body out of the way of the heavy hooves as they landed close to him. D'Artagnan had held his breath at that moment. He reached out and grabbed Aramis' arms before beginning the process of dragging him out. Aramis could not help a couple of hisses and whimpers of pain as his injuries were agitated.

'We've got you,' said d'Artagnan as they got to the gap.

'Paul?' asked Aramis.

D'Artagnan sighed, 'he'll be fine, he was coming around as Luc and Barbotin took him to the infirmary. Can we concentrate on you for a second?'

Aramis nodded his assent to the order.

D'Artagnan moved out of the way as Porthos and Athos grabbed one arm each and pulled Aramis the rest of the way out of the stable.

They paused for a few seconds, all breathing hard.

'Thank you,' said Aramis as he got his breath back.

'You can thank us by behaving whilst we deal with your injuries,' said Athos with a stern look at the injured Musketeer.

'I think,' said Aramis, with a faint grin, 'that I am going to be quite stiff and in a lot of pain, so won't have much choice.'

D'Artagnan smiled, 'let's get you up and see how Paul is.'

Between them they helped Aramis to his feet, he could not take any weight on his right leg where the horse had kicked him. Porthos went to slip his arm around his friend's waist to offer support. D'Artagnan stopped him.

'If you hold him there, he'll likely pass out.'

Aramis nodded, glancing at the angry dark bruising on his side.

Porthos changed tactics and tried to put his arm around Aramis' shoulders. Aramis winced.

'Is there anywhere the horse didn't kick you?' asked Porthos with exasperation.

'Sorry…' said Aramis.

Porthos shook his head, 'I'm going to get a chair, he can just sit down until he can move on his own.'

The End.

**Whumpee: Aramis. Featuring all four.**


	11. Stitches

**Authors note: This is set after the events of 'Prisoners of War' it's a little AU, but I dislike their relationships in the third series.**

**Stitches**

Aramis looked up from his book. Minister Treville was walking purposefully towards him, a small bag clutched under his arm. Aramis had not spoken to the former Captain since his dressing down. Once he had recovered from his capture and ordeal with Grimaud the previous week he had gradually got back on talking terms with his friend, but the Minister had proved elusive.

Now the man was glaring at him in such a way that Aramis was convinced he was in for a second ticking off.

Porthos and d'Artagnan were sparring on the other side of the yard, they paused as the Minister stopped in front of Aramis. The current Musketeer Captain was watching from the bottom step. They all looked a mixture of concerned, amused and worried.

Treville hooked his hand under Aramis' arm and pulled him up to stand, Aramis was so stunned he just allowed the Minister to move him towards the steps.

'Captain,' said Treville. 'May I borrow your office?'

Athos nodded and stepped aside as Treville walked Aramis up the stairs. The confused Musketeer glanced back; Athos shrugged. Porthos and d'Artagnan had wandered to the bottom of the steps watching as their friend was walked away by the Minister for an unknown reason.

MMMM

Aramis allowed the Minister to propel him into the room before turning back. Treville closed the door before crossing to the desk. He lay the bag he had been holding on the desk.

'I'd like to apologise. I was wrong to shout at you. You were doing as your Queen had asked. The plan might have worked-'

'Cap-Minister...I.'

'Aramis, I need your assistance...your help.'

Treville unfurled the bundle he had put on the desk. Aramis looked from the pristine field medical kit to the Minister as he pushed the sleeve of his doublet up. A blood-stained rudimentary bandage was revealed.

'I need you to stitch this.'

'Captain,' said Aramis. 'The Palace physician-'

'Would have told the King, who would have asked me how it happened...and I would have been forced to tell him it was caused by the Dauphin.'

The Minister paused.

'Your son, Aramis. Your son did this to me.'

Aramis stared at Treville for several seconds.

The Minister continued, 'I'm teaching him to fight...in the absence of his own father's excellent swordsmanship, I took it upon myself to guide him.'

Aramis interrupted, 'but why weren't you using covered swords?'

Treville sighed, 'because I thought he would not be as good as he evidently is. I let my guard down and he rightly took advantage.'

Aramis tried to hide a smile; he knew he had failed when Treville smirked with a shake of his head.

'I think you are allowed to be proud, Aramis.'

'Does he know - the Dauphin - that he hurt you?' asked Aramis, wondering how his son had reacted.

'No,' replied the Minister, with a shake of his head. 'I pretended it was only a scratch. I made my excuses...that he had worn me out and left.'

Aramis moved forward, collecting a chair and placing it by the desk. He nodded towards the chair as he moved off again to gather what he would need to deal with the injury. Treville cleaned the wound himself and doused it with alcohol before allowing Aramis to wipe it dry. The clean cut across the side of the Ministers wrist was still bleeding.

'Are you fully recovered?' asked Treville.

Aramis paused his preparations and looked up.

'Yes. I think it took me a while to fully accept I had been hurt. I was so angry. With the men that took me, with my brothers...with you…'

Treville nodded, 'I think we all said things we regret that day.'

Aramis had accepted that things would not go back to how they had been before he left. But since his capture and rescue, things had been said between them, bridges rebuilt. Now, his own son, the son that he could not acknowledge, had helped to reunite him with the man who he considered to be more of a father figure than his own.

Treville twisted in his seat and rested his arm on the edge of the table. Aramis pulled up a second chair and sat down by his former Captain. Treville tensed up slightly as Aramis put in the first stitch but remained still. The former soldier was not getting his first stitches.

'I remember the first time you stitched me up,' said Treville as Aramis continued to work. 'You were shaking. I think the responsibility of fixing your Captain was weighing heavily on you.'

Aramis smiled. He remembered the incident well, it felt like a hundred years before. A different time.

'Things are changing,' said Treville. 'We must be ready...and we must be united.'

Aramis tied off the last stitch and looked up.

'We are united, Minister,' he replied. 'We were on rocky ground for a while, but I believe we are ready for what is to come.'

The End.

**Whumpee: Treville. Featuring Aramis.**


	12. Don't Move

'**Don't Move' **

'Don't move,' commanded d'Artagnan from above him.

Porthos was too confused to try moving anyway. He could not work out where he was or how he had got there. He did know that everything hurt, although the pain was subsiding and becoming more localised.

He was aware of movement near him, d'Artagnan, he guessed, he tried to lift his head but decided that was not a good idea.

Opening his eyes would not hurt him. The sight that greeted him was a shock though.

Carefully Porthos looked around, he was somehow lying on his side on some sharp rocks, staring down the side of a steep hill, which seemed to go on forever. As he shifted, ever so slightly, a few tiny stones skittered loose and tumbled down the hill gathering momentum as they went.

Porthos did not want to follow them.

More stones and a few bigger rocks fell around him, he wanted to move out of the way of the falling rocks, but every fibre of his being told him to remain still. D'Artagnan's warning had been for a reason.

Porthos realised he was finding breathing difficult, he looked down his body, his eyes going wide when he found the reason for his breathing difficulty. He was lying wrapped around a tree.

The pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place, he must have fallen, his fall stopped by the small tree he was lying next to.

A horse whinnied above him. The memory came back, he had been thrown from his horse, rather than only falling a few feet he had lost his balance and toppled over the edge of the road and down the side of the mountain pass.

Very slowly he started to move his hands to try to get a grip of the tree, the only thing keeping him from finishing his journey down the side of the hill.

'Don't move, Porthos. Keep still.'

'It's alright, I'll be careful-'

'No. Just stay still until I've got a rope to you,' said d'Artagnan with a stern tone.

Porthos was not used to being spoken to in such a manner by his friend. Perhaps d'Artagnan knew something he did not. Porthos stopped his movement.

'Why do I need to be still?'

'In a minute,' replied d'Artagnan, who sounded slightly distracted.

Porthos did not speak again, realising his friend was having to concentrate on his own more calculated descent of the hillside. More stones jumped passed him before a pair of booted feet appeared in front of him at an angle to the ground. Porthos realised d'Artagnan was clinging to a rope, he hoped the man was tied on, he did not like the idea of seeing his friend fall to his death. Death was all that would greet them at the bottom, the distance too far, with the jagged rocks ready to see them ripped to shreds on the way down.

A second rope came into view, hanging in front of him.

'Slowly reach out your hand and wrap the rope around it, so we know you're not going to fall any further,' said d'Artagnan.

Porthos did as he was told as d'Artagnan got closer and crouched down next to him. Porthos was pleased to see the rope wrapped around d'Artagnan's waist.

'I'm going to tie this rope around you, just try not to move too much.'

'Why-'

'In a minute.'

Porthos guessed he was not allowed to know the answer.

He felt d'Artagnan feeding another rope around his waist, pushing it around him carefully before tying it firmly.

'Alright,' he said, leaning back a little, 'are you hurt? That you can tell? Did you bang your head?'

D'Artagnan was doing his best to look him over.

'Don't think so,' replied Porthos honestly. 'I'm going to be bruised, but I can't feel anything bad.'

'Good,' d'Artagnan paused before shifting slightly and calling up the hillside. 'We're coming back up. I've got him tied on.'

Porthos was aware of a shout above before the rope around his waist was pulled taut, the rope he had wrapped around his wrist was also pulled.

'Use that one to steady yourself as we go back up,' suggested d'Artagnan.

Porthos nodded and used the second rope to help him. He was not ashamed to accept the help, he did not like the idea of trying to get back up the hillside on his own. As he moved, he became aware of numerous aches and pains returning to him, strained muscles and bruised limbs were going to plague him for a few days, he was sure.

He felt d'Artagnan's hand on his back, keeping him steady.

'Thank you,' he said, 'but why did I have to keep still? I'm not feeling faint or anything.'

D'Artagnan nodded towards the tree that had stopped his fall and kept him in place. Porthos glanced back at it and gasped.

'I see,' he said.

Porthos took in the rotten trunk of the tree. The branches were all gone, all that was left was a gnarled broken stump, tall enough to have stopped him. The bark was peeling, the rot leaving the trunk several different colours. Bits were flaking off; holes covered the wood. He could see splinters of wood lying around the tree, no doubt knocked loose by his impact with it. Porthos realised he had been lucky; the dead tree had provided one last service before crumbling to nothing.

'We could see it was rotten if you moved any more than you already had it would have broken off and taken you with it. We had to be quick. I don't think there was even any discussion. Aramis just tied the rope around me and helped me over the side, Athos was busy securing the other ends of all three ropes as I started to climb down.'

If his friends had not been quick to get to him, he might have moved about too much and dislodged the tree leading to a painful death.

Porthos guessed he owed them all a drink that night.

The End.

**Whumpee: Porthos. Featuring d'Artagnan.**


	13. Adrenaline

**Adrenaline **

He knew it had been a mistake to climb the wall and try to break into the house from the back. It seemed so simple at the time, no one was in the house, not even any servants. He knew that Gerard was so secretive he only allowed servants that did not live in and they were only allowed in the house when he was there. As Gerard was currently being entertained by a couple of ladies of the street, who had been given a little extra money to keep the man away, Athos thought he would have no issue breaking in.

Athos was wrong.

Gerard had two dogs.

Two big dogs.

That were loose.

The large enclosed back garden had looked empty when he had dropped down from the wall. No other houses overlooked the garden. Athos had walked confidently across the manicured lawn, passed an impressive oak tree that dominated the centre of the lawn. He had reached the back of the house and was looking at the lock on the back door, trying to decide if he should pick the lock or just break-in. If he broke in, he would not have to worry about making a mess to look for the papers.

A low growl behind him made him freeze. He turned slowly and looked at the owner of the growl.

The snarling dark brown dogs were standing a few yards from him. One had slightly bowed its head, its ears back, baring teeth that looked far too big. The other, with a darker face than the first, paced a few feet to the side, trying to block Athos' easiest escape route. Athos guessed the dogs were well trained. They certainly knew he should not have been where he was.

He did not want to shoot the dogs; he could not draw attention to himself. He was in the enclosed rear garden of a very secretive man; it was obvious he was trespassing.

Athos glanced towards the wall he had climbed over to gain entrance to the garden, on the other side he had been able to move an abandoned wooden chest to gain enough height to reach the top. He had not planned to leave in the same manner, he had expected to slip out via the side gate, which he would have unlocked from the inside.

The black-faced dog was preventing Athos from escaping with ease via the gate. His only option was the wall. The dogs were standing their ground, they had not advanced on Athos. Were they waiting for him to make the first move? Perhaps they were trained to keep intruders captive until their master returned.

He looked at the wall, there were enough points of erosion to give him places to grab onto and push up from. The problem was he did not think he could be quick enough. The big dogs would be on him before he reached the wall.

Slowly he eased his main gauche from the back of his belt, the dogs watched his every move. The growling dog took a couple of slow steps forward as Athos moved. When he had freed the main gauche Athos moved it back and forth a couple of times. The dog's eyes followed the movement. Athos threw the parrying dagger as far away from him as he could. Both dogs followed it, bounding the few yards within seconds.

Athos did not wait, he ran, he knew the gate was only around the corner of the house, in a narrow alleyway between the high perimeter wall and the light grey stone of the main house. He reached the alleyway and tore along it to the gate. He could see the two bolts as he skidded to a halt, as he reached for the lower one, he heard the tap of many claws on stone. The big dogs were after him. He looked up, the gate was not as high as the fence, he reached up and grabbed the top of the gate and started to haul himself up, he had nothing to use for his feet to gain purchase. Athos managed to get one arm hooked over the top, ready to pull his body up.

But he was too late, the dogs were on him.

He felt the strong jaws from one of the dogs clamp down on his booted ankle, dragging him back to the ground. He fell heavily, twisting onto his side he elbowed the dog away, catching it across the jaw. The dog gave a small yelp and backed off a few feet. Athos knew he had no choice, he had to shoot the dog. He wrenched his gun from his belt and raised it to aim at the dog which was already starting to advance on him.

The darker faced dog had managed to work its way up the alleyway beside its fellow canine, Athos was focused on the snarling dog, not noticing the darker dog until it was too late. As he went to pull the trigger, the darker dog moved forward, biting down on his wrist. With a reflex action Athos pulled the trigger, the snarling dog yelped and scampered back. But Athos had no time to worry about how badly injured the other dog was, his sole focus was on the darker dog which was trying to shake its head and pull at his arm.

The leather of his doublet was taking most of the impact of the dogs vicious looking teeth, but the sheer force of the bite caused Athos to cry out in pain. He could feel his arm being crushed, he wondered if one of the bones in his forearm would break. Something at the back of his mind kept telling him the dog biting his arm was the least of his worries.

The other dog.

He managed to look in the direction it had stumbled off. Sure enough, it was starting to advance on him again, from his prone position on the ground, pulling at his arm trying to get free, the second dog looked much bigger than it had done before. The blood dripping from its side did not seem to be slowing it down. Athos wondered if the dog was only still alive through sheer determination.

Knowing he had to deal with the advancing dog, taking advantage of the darker dog's distraction of trying to rip his arm off, Athos managed to reach his boot and pull a dagger from it. The thought of letting the dog get close enough to him to plunge the blade into it was not something he really wanted to do. The snarl had not been diminished since its injury if anything the dog seemed more determined to hurt him. Athos pulled at his arm, still held captive by the other dog, briefly before going back to concentrating on where he was going to strike the advancing salivating hound.

He kicked at the dog which backed off a couple of paces before moving to the side, taking advantage of every inch of the width alleyway. The dog knew it would have more of an impact by attacking Athos' body and head. Athos readied the dagger, holding it as firmly as his rapidly diminishing energy would allow.

The dog paused, Athos was sure it narrowed its eyes at him, before launching, Athos stabbed upwards, catching the dog in the throat, a lucky thrust for him. Unlucky for the dog. The momentum carried the dog forward, as it landed on Athos it was still. With a second surge of strength, Athos pushed the dog off him, towards the dog that was still biting down on his arm. The dog let him go, barking loudly, backing off a few paces.

Athos did not believe he had won; he wrenched the dagger from the other dog's throat. He twisted towards the second dog before it had time to move too far back, bringing the dagger down on the back of its neck. With a yelp the dog moved off, trying to shake the dagger free.

The energy left him, he flopped back to the ground, panting. He stared at the darkening sky. He closed his eyes for a few seconds.

He could not pass out. Not where he was. He had to get off Gerard's property. He tipped his head back and looked at the gate behind him, he lifted his right arm and pulled at the lower bolt, drawing it back with ease.

Slowly and surely, he twisted over and pushed himself up. He looked at his left arm, the leather of his doublet was wet from the dog's saliva. He resisted the urge to push the sleeve up, instead he pushed the injured limb into his doublet. With a fortifying breath, Athos pushed himself up to stand, reaching out with his good hand to steady himself. After opening the top bolt on the gate and checking that the dying dog had not returned, Athos slipped away.

The End.

**Whumpee: Athos.**

**Authors note: I could leave it there...but I won't. Wait for Chapter 23.**


	14. Tear Stained

**Authors note: ****Trigger warning**** in a note at the end. Please check it if there are things that might cause you distress. **

**Tearstained **

They were spread too thinly, there were not enough of them, the whole situation had quickly spiralled out of control.

Athos was sure they would not find all the escapees. He knew they would not all finish the day unscathed. The escapees, the ones that could think straight, were desperate, they would fight back. Even the simple-minded ones were likely to fight.

Soldiers were going to be harmed before the day was out and some of the escapees would not make it back to the asylum. Some would escape, but more would die.

They had been at muster, Treville had been about to give out the days duties when the asylum guard had burst into the garrison yard. It had taken the man a few minutes to breathlessly tell them what had happened. It had taken Treville a few seconds to disperse most of the Musketeers to assist in the recovery and recapture of the insane and mentally ill prisoners.

With no plan, they were to use their wits, something they all relied on more often than Athos would like.

The Asylum was close enough to the garrison for the soldiers to reach its walls within a few minutes. The imposing, tall, walls looked over them, concealing horrors Athos preferred to only imagine.

The wide double gate stood open. Usually, the gates were only opened to allow secure carriages to enter, under careful guard. The now unguarded gates were swinging slightly as prisoners stumbled passed.

It was clear the slow, shambling, men and women who were still leaving the asylum would be easy to round up. The inmates that stared at the soldiers wide-eyed, with either fear or animosity were too slow, old, infirm or all three to put up any resistance. Athos nodded towards some of his friends and comrades. The men immediately set about corralling the bewildered and weak or urging the confrontational back towards their dank cells.

Athos hated it but knew it had to be done.

A glimpse of white caught his eye. Most of the prisoners wore grubby, tatty clothes. Athos followed, knowing the rest of the Musketeers could cope without him. The white, clean clothes of the escapee indicated to Athos the prisoner was new. They had not had time to wear in their issues clothing, had not had time to become institutionalised.

The prisoners were either given plain breeches and shirts or a simple loose tunic. Athos was sure he was following a woman clad in a pure white tunic. Athos was no fool he knew a woman could be just as dangerous, or more so, than a man.

Athos spotted the woman ahead of him. She seemed to be floating along the road. She was barefoot, her feet and ankles were the only part of her lithe body that were showing any signs of dirt.

The woman, Athos guessed she was in her early twenties, seemed to know where she was going. Athos followed.

She turned into a busy street, but the people moved aside for the escaped prisoner. Athos had not seen her face, he wondered if she was disfigured or maimed in some way. He could not understand why the people moved away from her.

Was it obvious that she was insane?

He continued to follow, slowly gaining on her. The woman was occasionally looking around but seemed to have a purpose, the woman was on a mission.

Athos still could not see her face, it was difficult to work out her demeanour, from her body language. He wanted to see her eyes, to see her expression. Athos knew that some people were difficult to read, but he wanted to know what he was dealing with.

The woman paused at the entrance to a side street before turning into it. Athos caught a glimpse of her face. He could see tears on her cheek, her eyes were red. The people that had moved aside were not recoiling form a horrible, scarred woman. The people were moving away from a potentially hysterical woman.

Athos wondered why the woman was in the asylum.

He quickened his pace when he realised where the young woman was going. She was walking toward the river. Athos knew the Seine was wide and fast flowing at that point. He broke into a run, skirting around a few scattered people, some of whom had stopped to stare at the woman as she walked, with light steps past them.

A door opened in front of him a man, old and bent, stepped out, stumbling on a step. Athos' natural reaction was to reach out and support him, stopping his fall. The man smiled at him, but Athos had no time for pleasantries. After ensuring the old man had found his footing, he left him by his doorway.

The young woman had reached the end of the road, Athos was just in time to see her turn towards the bridge. She made her way towards the middle.

Athos ushered curious bystanders aside. The young woman had stopped. She rested her hands on the stone wall, the only thing between her and a sheer drop to the freezing water below.

Athos knew he would not be in time; knew he would not stop her. He called out.

She looked around. Looked at him, her tear-streaked cheeks were flushed, a result of her emotion or the cold, Athos could not tell. But he could see relief in her eyes. A calm that radiated from her.

She pulled herself up, swinging her legs over the wall.

Athos called out again. He knew she had heard him; knew she had understood him. She looked him the eyes again. He was close enough to see that the smile reached her eyes. She shook her head; she was not going to do what he had asked of her.

She looked back at the river for a second before pushing herself off. Athos reached her; his fingers touched her arm.

But he was too late. She was gone.

He stood, where she had been mere seconds before, staring at the swell of the river.

He was quickly joined by other people leaning over, searching the water for any sign of the young woman. Athos knew they would not find her. He pushed away from the wall, turned away from the bridge, walked away from the crowd.

He had been too slow, but a thought kept bothering him. If he had saved her, if he had pulled her back; what life would she have been returned to?

The young woman seemed to know what she was doing. Had she made a conscious decision?

Athos could not fully contemplate what had happened. He had to get back to the asylum, but the young woman's smile would haunt him for a long time to come.

The End.

**Trigger warning: Suicide.**

**Whumpee: Unknown. Featuring Athos.**

**Authors note: There will be more about the escapees from the asylum...**


	15. Scars

**Authors note: Thank you all for your positive comments about the last story. It meant a lot. This one is much more light-hearted. **

**Scars**

Porthos was trying to keep his mind on his work, but the thought of the stew that would be waiting for him at his favourite tavern was distracting him. The weather was balmy, the warm summer's evening meant that many of the courtiers were still milling about in the gardens. He was walking a respectful distance behind the Queen and the Dauphin. The two were deep in conversation. Porthos had noticed the Dauphin had looked a little upset when he had emerged from the palace with his mother. The Queen was holding the little boy's hand and talking quietly to him.

When she paused and turned around Porthos stopped and moved to the side of the path, expecting the elegant Queen to retrace her steps back towards the Palace. Instead, she stopped in front of him, the Dauphin at her side.

'Porthos,' she said.

'Majesty,' replied Porthos wondering what the Queen wanted of him.

It was not unusual for the Royal family to talk to the Musketeers. The Queen, in particular, had more of an interest in them than the other members of the Royal family. Perhaps the Queen was going to ask after Aramis who did not often stand guard at the Palace any more.

'The Dauphin received an injury this morning,' said the Queen. 'He very valiantly stopped a broken glass from falling to the floor. In doing so he cut his thumb.'

The Queen looked down at the Dauphin who lifted his right hand and showed Porthos a small bandage around his thumb. Porthos nodded, still unsure what was expected of him.

'The physician said that the cut would probably leave a scar. Louis is worried about this...I wondered if you would be able to...explain to him that there is no shame in being...scarred.'

Porthos hid a smile at the way the Queen had awkwardly explained what she wanted, all the while trying not to look at the scar across his eye. He nodded his understanding before crouching in front of the future monarch.

Louis looked at him, his eyes wide.

'Does it hurt,' asked the boy who was staring at the scar.

Porthos shook his head, 'No, majesty. It hurt when it happened but it doesn't hurt now.'

Louis looked at his thumb for a few seconds.

'You weren't doing anything bad when you were hurt,' said Porthos.

The Dauphin shook his head, 'no, I accidentally knocked the glass. It smashed on the table and I grabbed it.'

'Then you did a good thing. I got this,' Porthos pointed at his own scar, 'in a battle. I was doing what I was supposed to be doing. I was just unlucky to get caught by an enemy soldier's sword, during the fight.'

'Did you kill him?' asked Louis who seemed to have forgotten his own injury.

Porthos glanced up to the Queen who rolled her eyes before nodding with a smile. She knew Porthos would not say anything to scare the boy.

'I did. We won the battle. It was a great victory.'

Louis seemed impressed even if he had not been given the gruesome details. Porthos did not have the heart to tell the boy that he had collapsed almost as soon as he had killed the soldier, that he had been carried from the battlefield, and woke up three hours later surrounded by many other injured men.

'You see Louis,' said the Queen, 'having a scar is nothing to be ashamed of.'

Louis looked at his thumb again and nodded.

'It's not a very impressive scar though,' he mused.

Porthos looked at the Queen who smiled before looking away, covering her mouth with her hand, trying not to shake with laughter.

'It doesn't have to be impressive to have a story behind it,' said Porthos. 'You will be able to tell all the ladies how you stopped the glass from falling to the floor. If you had not done that someone might have trodden on the glass and hurt themselves badly.'

Louis thought the scenario through before he grinned, positively beaming with pride at his achievement. He looked around, spotting some of the pretty young ladies of the court walking across the grass. He glanced up at his mother before slipping his other hand from hers and running across to the ladies who were quick to pay the future King all their attention.

Porthos rose to his feet.

'Not sure if I just made it worse,' he said.

'Well at least he isn't worried about it anymore,' the Queen replied with a smile, 'thank you. Now, I need to stop him from flirting with all the ladies and get him to his bed.'

The End.

**Whumpee: The Dauphin. Featuring Porthos and the Queen**


	16. Pinned Down

**Pinned Down**

Athos felt helpless, he was helpless, there was nothing he could do to help. He was trapped and only his brothers could get him free. But they were a bit busy at that precise moment.

They had been very close to escaping, very close to slipping away without being noticed. Then one of the guards had looked in their direction, seen them creeping off and shouted. The shout had alerted more men to their location and was quickly followed by a couple of gunshots. Neither shot had hit any of them, the shooters were too far away to make anything close to a good aim, but they had caused the rocks on the cliff face they were edging passed to come loose. Athos had seen what was going to happen, he had been quick enough to push Porthos out of the way but not quick enough to get himself out of the way.

As he lay, pinned to the ground, his leg trapped under one of the rocks all he could do was watch as his friends fought off the men that were trying to get the better of them.

Porthos had managed to push a couple of the rocks off him before being forced to help fight alongside Aramis and d'Artagnan.

There were enough men to keep his three brothers occupied. They had the added disadvantage of not being able to move about too much, they did not want to leave him open to attack.

Athos pushed at the rock again, it was too heavy for him to move, with help, he was sure he could shift it, but not alone. The worst thing was, he was sure he was not badly injured, if at all. He could feel the rock on his leg, but he did not feel pain, he could still move his foot, he just could not get free. He knew he had been hit by smaller rocks as they fell, he knew he would be bruised but had he not been trapped he would have had no issue contributing to the fight.

D'Artagnan was fending off two capable men, the older of the two looked as though he had been a soldier in a previous life, whilst the younger man's movements were a little exaggerated but were good enough to be making the Musketeer work.

Aramis had engaged with a fiercely energetic man of equal build and height to him, but with much less ability. Athos was confident his friend would finish his fight quickly.

Porthos, like d'Artagnan, was fighting two men, one was the man that had first seen them trying to slip away, and the other was the leader of the gang of thugs.

A cry from the man Aramis was fighting signified a slight swing in the Musketeers favour. Aramis glanced around, after a quick look at both of his fighting brothers, he looked at Athos who indicated for Aramis to help Porthos and d'Artagnan. Aramis nodded and stepped towards the men fighting Porthos but stopped and looked back towards the area where the gang had been encamped. Before he drew too much attention as an unmarked man, Aramis pulled his guns from his belt and threw them towards Athos, who was a little confused. Aramis pointed at the camp. More men were rushing towards them. Aramis could not reload a gun and continue a sword fight at the same time. Athos glanced at his own gun, realising Aramis had given him a chance to contribute to the fight.

Grabbing the guns and pulling his own gun took seconds, he quickly shifted slightly to get into a better position to fire. It was not ideal, but it would do. He watched carefully for the new attackers to reach them, aiming at the spot he suspected they would appear.

He fired.

The only man that reacted to the shot was the man that collapsed to the ground. The rest of the gang continued their fight.

The second and third guns were similarly employed, but the odds were still against the three fighting Musketeers. Athos kept an eye on his brothers as he reloaded all three guns, he tried to work out which gang members were leaving themselves exposed.

An older man, who was fighting Porthos kept stepping back to allow the other three men to get at their enemy.

Athos despatched the man.

Two younger men were trying to get Aramis to move so that they could get around behind him.

Athos dealt with them both.

The odds were still against the Musketeers as Athos reloaded a second time. He looked across at d'Artagnan, noticing a cut to his doublet, he had probably been caught by a sword. The injury did not appear to be hindering him yet, but Athos was able to assist by taking out another two men.

A yell from Porthos made Athos look back over. One of the men who had been fighting him had stepped back, pulling his own gun at the same time. Athos could see that he would have been the subject of the man's aim.

Athos was quicker.

One of the men fighting Aramis seemed to grow bored with the swordfight and started to fight in a manner more suited to street brawling. He managed to kick Aramis hard to the shin, causing him to falter and dip down slightly. The man took advantage and kicked him again catching his hip.

Athos saw to it that his friend was not kicked a third time.

Aramis managed to regain his footing but was left without the ability to firmly plant his feet. Athos was not too worried as Aramis was also only left with one man to fight.

D'Artagnan was down to two men, the most recent of his victims had stumbled backwards grasping at a gaping neck wound before slumping to the ground. The man was quickly joined by two more men courtesy of a couple of vicious moves on Porthos' part. Athos could see a couple of cuts to Porthos head, he suspected the dirty fighting style had not just been directed at Aramis.

Athos fired his guns again, taking out three more of the men, he shared the honour of dealing with the last man as d'Artagnan sliced his opponent across the side at the same time as the man took a ball to the chest.

The three standing Musketeers paused for a moment staring in the direction of the camp. Silence fell on the area for a few seconds before the usual night-time noises of the local fauna began again.

'Let's not do that again?' asked Porthos.

'Agreed,' said d'Artagnan as he inspected the cut to his arm.

Aramis turned to Athos, concern on his face.

'I just managed to kill half the men you were fighting, I do not think I am seriously injured,' remarked Athos.

'Good job,' said Aramis, 'I doubt we would still be here to rescue you otherwise.'

Porthos looked at the offending rock covering Athos' leg, he indicated for Aramis to help him. Between them, they lifted the rock enough for Athos to ease himself out from under it with d'Artagnan's help.

'There's an empty camp over there,' said d'Artagnan pointing at the gang's former home. 'We might as well make use of it.'

Athos allowed Porthos to help him up, he looked at his three friends. Porthos had blood trickling down his face, Aramis was rubbing at his hip and limping slightly, and d'Artagnan was holding his arm protectively.

'Despite the fact that I was the one you were all defending, I am the least hurt of all of us.'

'You can patch us up then,' said Porthos with a grin.

Athos nodded as he led them back toward the camp they had been trying to sneak away from. They weaved their way between the bodies of the gang, there was no need for stealth anymore.

The End.

**Whumpees: All four.**


	17. Stay With Me

'Stay with Me'

**Authors note: this follows on from 'Dragged Away' chapter 8. Aramis, early in his soldiering career, has been injured and threatened by an enemy soldier. **

Treville had seen the young Spanish soldier slipping away, skirting towards the firing position of Captain Roux's marksman. Heavy fire in the direction of the marksman had driven the even younger soldier back. Captain Treville wondered if the promising gunman had been hit.

Roux had told him Aramis was not a good fit in his garrison. Not because the young soldier was not a good soldier. Aramis was an excellent dedicated man, no, he was not a good fit because he was too skilled with the musket and any gun he picked up. The infantry was no place for Aramis.

Treville was in the early stages of forming a new garrison. A garrison of elite soldier; marksmen, Musketeers and formidable swordsmen would make up the troop.

Treville did not like the idea of losing his first recruit before the man had even been invited.

Knowing he would not be missed on the battlefield, Treville made his way to the last place he knew Aramis had been, where he had seen the enemy marksman heading. The firing position had been well chosen. Good sightlines and a sensible retreat if it were needed, which it had been. Treville approved. There was no sign of Aramis or the enemy soldier.

There were, however, signs of an injury. A small patch of blood and some torn fabric told Treville that Aramis had been injured. He looked at the ground, reading the signs. A standard-issue gun lay a few yards away, a spent musket had fallen to the ground near a large boulder which would have made a good vantage point for the young marksman. Looking at the ground Treville saw drag marks, heels dug into the ground, bleeding fingers clutching at the loose earth.

Treville looked up when he heard a cry of pain. He moved forward. The sounds of the battle raging behind him covering any noise he made. The young Spanish soldier had his back to Treville. The man was oblivious to his presence.

Aramis was also unaware, but Treville could forgive the marksman for that. The man was covered in blood, dirt and mud. He had a rudimentary bandage around a leg wound, blood staining the ripped fabric. His fingers were bloody, his hands bruised. The young man's scared eyes were wide, his blood-streaked face a stark contrast to the pale rocks he was lying sprawled over.

The Spaniard was leaning over Aramis, a dagger pressed to the man's neck. It was clear Aramis thought he was going to die.

Treville wasted no time, he raised and aimed his gun. The shot knocked the enemy soldier to the side, an unconscious move on the man's part saw him reach up to his head as he fell.

Aramis did not flinch, but he was shaking, the shock of the assault and pain leaving him unable to react other than with a slight movement of his head.

Treville reached the man with a few strides, he unceremoniously pushed the Spaniard out of the way. Aramis was staring at him with confusion.

'Hello,' Treville said, 'I'm Captain Treville, I'd like to offer you a place in my new garrison of Musketeers.'

He smiled at Aramis, who blinked a few times. Treville took a handkerchief from his pocket and pulled the waterskin from his waist. He dampened the cloth and went about wiping the worst of the blood from Aramis' face.

'I'm going to patch you up,' he said knowing he had to keep the injured man focused.

The man he wanted as a marksman in his new regiment was a sorry sight. Bloodied and bruised, with a gunshot wound to the leg, his new man would start his tour of duty in the infirmary.

'How do you know me?' asked Aramis, the confusion still marring his face.

Treville chuckled, 'we Captains talk to one another. Roux says you are his best man with a gun, and I want men who are good with guns.'

Aramis blinked a few times before closing his eyes for a few seconds.

'Stay awake Aramis, I need you to stay with me. I'm not carrying you out of here. You will be walking.'

Aramis slowly opened his eyes again, 'sorry.'

Treville shook his head, 'you don't have anything to be sorry about. That,' he pointed at the body of the Spaniard, 'was an evil man. He was toying with you. A true soldier would have just shot you and moved on.'

'Kind of glad he didn't just shoot me,' Aramis managed a pained smile. 'But I did think...he was going to...kill me and I couldn't stop him.'

Treville ran his hands over Aramis' limbs and body as the injured man spoke causing him to gasp a few times in pain. Treville could not find any more injuries as serious as the gunshot wound. The man was covered in bruises and minor cuts and grazes. The cut to his forehead was bleeding steadily, as all head wounds did, the handsome man would be left with a scar, although the ladies would probably find it attractive.

'The balls still in my leg,' said Aramis as Treville looked at the bandage.

'The surgeon will deal with that,' replied Treville, hoping he sounded confident.

If the young man's injury became infected, there was a chance he would die. But Aramis was young and otherwise fit, Treville hoped he would be able to fight off any fever. There was also the possibility that the soldier would be left permanently affected by the injury, which could force him out of the army before his career had really begun.

'He's a good man,' said Aramis, his words starting to sound a little slurred, 'he's teaching me to be a field medic.'

'That's good, I need one of those in my garrison,' replied Treville as he helped the young soldier to sit up.

Aramis was breathing hard from the effort, his assortment of injuries causing him more pain. Treville pulled the man's shirt loose before ripping it to make another bandage.

Aramis frowned at the move, 'that was a new shirt,' he said, 'but I didn't have anything else to use on my leg.'

Treville smiled, 'I will see to it that you always have something with you to use as a bandage in an emergency. I will make it part of your uniform. No more wasted shirts for you.'

Aramis thought about the proposal for a few seconds, 'thank you.'

Treville tied the strip of the shirt around Aramis' head, covering the cut. Aramis looked as though he was drifting off again. Treville shook him, bringing the young man back to wakefulness. He slipped his arm around Aramis' shoulders and eased him up to stand, leaving the injured man panting for breath at the effort.

Treville noticed Aramis looking at the dead man's guns. The ornate, well-made weapons looked new. He walked Aramis the few steps to the fallen weapons, awkwardly he scooped them up.

'A souvenir of our meeting,' he said.

Aramis managed an appreciative nod.

'We'll circle around,' suggested Treville, 'I don't really fancy going through the middle of a battlefield, do you agree?'

Aramis managed a nod, 'this is not the most auspicious start for your new garrison,' he said, 'your first recruit won't be soldiering for a while.'

'I'm sure you will more than make up for it,' said Treville with confidence.

The End.

**Whumpee: Aramis. Featuring Treville.**


	18. Muffled Scream

**Muffled Scream **

He slowly opened his eyes. The room was dimly lit. Candles or torches, he guessed, the flickering told him there was a window or some source of a breeze. The breeze was not enough to chase away the smell.

Blood and sweat.

And fear.

Raising his head slowly he took in his surroundings. A stone-walled room, a cellar adapted to keep a man prisoner. There was a window, high up on the wall, he craned his neck to see. There was nothing but inky blackness beyond the small window. At least that told him it was nighttime.

They had been caught in daylight.

He looked down at himself. He was sat in a firm, sturdy, wooden chair. His wrists were strapped to the armrests. The leather straps were tight, after a few experimental tugs he knew he would not be able to slip his hands free. The edge of the leather had already dug into the skin of his wrists. He tried to move his legs but found them to be restrained, strapped to the legs of the chair, his boots had been removed, he could feel the cold stone on the soles of his bare feet. As a final restraint, another leather strap was across his chest, the strap tight enough to keep him from leaning more than a couple of inches forward but not tight enough to impede his breathing.

He was alone. He wondered where his brother was. They had been caught together, he had been hit on the back of the head, the last thing he remembered was his brother shouting his name as the blackness consumed his vision. Was his brother being kept in a similar state in another room?

Was his brother still alive?

Footsteps echoed outside the room. Several people walking towards his room. They did not stop at the heavy looking dark wooden door. He followed the noises with his head, the only part of him that he could move freely. The footsteps stopped a little further along what he guessed was a corridor beyond the heavy door. There was a pause followed by the sound of a key in a big lock. He looked at the lock on the door in front of him and imagined the people opening a similar door, but further along the corridor, perhaps the next room. The next cell.

Voices. A firm, commanding male voice said something, he could not make out what. It was a question. There was a pause. The same voice asked the same something. The commanding man asked the question a third time and was again met with silence. When the question was asked for the fourth time, there was a slight hint of exasperation about it. He did not know what the question was, but he could tell the man asking it was quickly losing patience.

He smiled; his brother was in the next room. Only his brother could annoy a leader so quickly. The leader, probably wanting to remain in charge of his men would need to get the Musketeer to talk or his own position might be in danger. But Musketeers were trained, they were trained not to talk.

Something heavy was dragged across the stone floor in the next room.

He knew what that meant, he could not tell what form it was going to take, but he knew what was going to happen. The leader was going to try to persuade his captive to talk and that would mean inflicting physical pain. But the Musketeer would continue to remain quiet. At least quiet as far as the questions he was being asked were concerned. There would be a period of stoic refusal to react to the torture, but it would not last, eventually, the man would cry out. Every man had a limit to the physical pain they could take before they verbalised that pain.

But the abused man would still not answer the question.

He sat still, listening, trying to work out what was being done to his brother. He knew there were many methods of extracting information. He had suffered some himself over the years. He suspected he might suffer some again before their current ordeal was over.

The torture and not answering the questions as the pain was dealt was the easy part. That they could do, they were trained for it, they had endured it before and, with luck, have the unfortunate opportunity to endure it again.

No.

The hard part.

The part he did not want to deal with but knew he had to.

That was the listening.

The knowing.

The knowing that his comrade, his best friend, his brother, was being tortured in the next room. Mere yards away, beyond the stone wall that separated their cells.

Keeping the information to himself when he knew that he could stop the pain his brother was being put through by talking. That was hard. All he had to do was shout out that he would talk, and his brother's ordeal would be stopped. But he could not do that.

It took his brother a while, as he knew it would, but the scream came. Muffled as it was it shook him. The pain had won out, his brother could not keep it in any longer.

And the reason his brother had tried to keep it in. The reason the man had suffered in silence for as long as he could, despite knowing that shouting and crying and screaming in pain somehow seemed to diminish it.

The Musketeer in the next cell had tried to keep quiet because he knew he would be heard. His brother did not want him to have to listen to the pain being made audible.

His brother had tried to keep quiet to protect him.

The leader would continue to inflict the pain until the Musketeer was unconscious. And then the leader would come into his cell and threaten to continue to hurt the unconscious soldier in the next room.

The leader would offer the captive a choice, talk or continue to listen to the muffled screams of his fellow soldier once he regained consciousness.

And he would remain quiet and allow it to happen.

And it would be horrific.

But it was what they did.

The End.

**Whumpee: A Musketeer. Featuring Another Musketeer.**


	19. Asphyxiation

**Asphyxiation**

The King was bored. It had been raining steadily for several hours. His advisors had suggested it would be unwise to take a ride or go hunting.

A rare day of rest for the King. He had hoped to enjoy his leisure time out of the Palace, enjoying his own thoughts, not those of his advisors.

He knew that at times he was a mouthpiece, a puppet to the ministers, he knew they were clever with their words, getting him to do what they wanted. Of course, the King also knew it was for the good of France, and, on the whole, what the ministers wanted was sensible.

Treville, his minister of War, was, of course, a man he trusted implicitly. The former Musketeer was one of the few men he allowed to speak freely to him without first seeking permission, something the King encouraged from his minister. The King needed men who knew their own minds, knew what was best and were prepared to argue their side. He preferred to be included in the argument not twisted to the Minister's side through sleight of hand. Treville was not like the other Ministers.

When it became clear he was not going to be leaving the Palace, the King had decided he would amuse himself by sulking. But he had only been amused for a couple of hours by the courtiers trying to entertain him and gain favour at the same time. The King had eventually left the courtiers if he could not enjoy the solace that the outside would bring, he would retreat to his private rooms instead, anything to get away from the incessant babble of the nobles. He encouraged them to fawn over him, positively enjoying it most of the time, but there came a point where he needed to be alone.

His valet had been despatched to find Minister Treville. The trusted advisor would at least talk to him as if he were a normal person, not a King. The King craved a simple conversation with someone who was not looking to gain anything from him. He thought about what they might discuss as he waited.

Fruit and fancy bread had been placed on a side table in his private sitting room. He looked at them for a few seconds before picking a couple of the grapes and wandering to the window.

He looked out over the pristine lawn, watched the rain falling, followed the lonely walk of a patrolling Musketeer with his gaze. As he ate one of the grapes, he heard the clacking of footsteps in the corridor. He smiled, Treville would bring him news of his country, of Paris, of her people.

He turned to the door as it was pushed open. Treville was one of the few Ministers who opened doors himself, he did not need or want a servant at his beck and call.

The King tried to swallow the grape before greeting the man he considered closest to a friend.

The next breath he took caught in his throat along with the grape. The grape was stuck, he tried to swallow, tried to cough, tried to speak. Tried to breath.

Nothing happened.

Each breath that he tried to take left him with what felt like less air in his lungs. Thoughts rushed through his head as he pulled at the collar of his shirt. He was going to die, struggling to breathe, gasping for life-giving air. The King of France, dying from an errant grape, on a wet Autumn afternoon. No way for a monarch to leave his people.

His legs felt weak, his clothes were too tight, he was hot.

And he still could not take a breath.

Hands-on his shoulders made him jump. In a moment of clarity, he was amused that, despite his imminent demise he could still be startled.

The person who had grabbed his shoulders moved him roughly. Under normal circumstances, such manhandling of the most senior Royal would be severely punished, but at that moment the King would allow the touching and manipulating, he did not have any choice.

Something pressed firmly on his back for a second before disappearing. The King had no time to wonder where it had gone before he was struck firmly and with power in the same place.

He coughed. He coughed again. As he coughed a third time, he realised he had taken deep, full, gasped, breaths in between each cough.

The hands were on him again, but now they were gentle, respectful.

'Majesty? ...look at me.'

The King opened his eyes, he found himself looking into the concerned face of his Minister for War. He opened his mouth to speak but coughed instead.

Treville eased him back a few steps, pushing him slowly, but firmly into a chair. The Minister stepped away from him, returning seconds later with a glass of water.

'Drink this slowly, sire,' said Treville. 'Calm your breathing. No one is here. It's just me.'

The King focused on the former Captain, realising what he was doing, treating him normally, exactly as he would expect. None of the fawning courtiers would have known what to do. But Treville had no qualms. Treville knew that to save him, the King of France, he had to treat him as a normal man.

With a shaking hand, the King took a few sips of water.

'Thank you,' he said.

'You're welcome, Majesty,' replied the Minister.

The End.

**Whumpee: The King. Featuring Treville.**


	20. Trembling

**Authors note: ****Trigger warning**** in a note at the end. Please check it if there are things that might cause you distress. **

**This is linked to Chapter 14, 'Tear Stained', but not a direct follow on.**

**Trembling**

D'Artagnan had left the chaos of the round up behind him. The Captain had told him to find Constance and ask her to help get the locals back into their homes. The women and stallholders would listen to the wife of a local businessman over that of a soldier. Constance was persuasive and had a way with words that made people listen to her.

As he made his way along the road, he was aware of shouts in various directions. He guessed some of the quicker escapees were causing problems in the area. He had seen Athos following another prisoner away from the asylum, and Porthos and Aramis entering the grim building before Treville had given him his own task.

Bonacieux was away, d'Artagnan had hoped to steal a night with Constance over the following days. He looked forward to a night in his lover's arms, but that would have to wait until the current crisis had been dealt with.

He turned into the area in front of Constance's home, he was surprised to find the area busy. The news of the breakout at the asylum had not reached the area, people were carrying on with their lives oblivious to the dangers that were spilling out of the imposing building nearby. Knowing that he would need help to persuade the locals to leave the area, to shut themselves in the relative safety of their homes, d'Artagnan made his way to the Bonacieux residence.

As he approached the door, he slowed his pace, something at the side of the building drew his attention. Broken glass and splintered wood. Changing his direction, d'Artagnan slipped down the side of the house, reaching the broken window. He peered in, his stomach churning at the sight within. The bedroom, the one he had stayed in when he lodged with the Bonacieux couple, was in a mess, something he knew Constance would not allow.

The broken window was just large enough for him to squeeze through. With an apprehension he hated, d'Artagnan quietly stepped across the wooden floor, he knew which boards creaked. At the half-open door, he paused, before rushing forward.

Constance was sat on the floor, pressed into a corner, her knees pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them. Her dress was ripped in several places, scratches and grazes covered her arms and face. Clear handprint bruises around her arms and wrists were unmistakable. With tears in her eyes, Constance looked at him, unable to stop herself trembling with shock.

MMMM

_Thirty minutes before…_

Constance ran the list of things she had to do that morning over in her mind. She ordered her chores and mused that without the man of the house getting under her feet she would have all the jobs done in half the time. Bonacieux tried to be a good husband, he loved her, but she could not love him. Theirs was an unhappy relationship and not one that she could get out of. She had to accept her lot, and the illicit trysts with d'Artagnan sometimes only served to remind her how unhappy she was in her marriage.

Of course, she looked forward to her handsome young lover visiting her later that day, she had food ready to prepare and had changed the bed linen already, they would be enjoying their time together. Constance would make sure of that.

She hummed contentedly to herself as she swept and tidied her home, thinking about the vegetables she still had to buy and the sewing she had promised her husband she would complete.

A noise at the side of the house made her pause in her work. She was convinced she had seen a shadow in the spare bedroom. She grabbed her broom again, wondering if an animal had somehow got in. Cautiously she approached the door and slowly pushed it open. The small window was shattered, broken glass scattered across the floor and on the bed. She could not see anything that could have caused the damage. Venturing further into the room she peered out of the broken window. A floorboard behind her creaked.

She was instantly alert. She clutched at her broom tightly as she slowly turned around.

A man was looking at her. A strange man, wearing tatty, dirty clothes. He was in his forties with a twisted scar down one side of his face, the scar had left him with a misshapen eye that appeared half-closed. The man was staring at her, his lips curled into a leer.

Constance felt her blood run cold; she knew exactly what the man wanted. And she was damned if she was going to let him have it.

'Why don't you put the broom down, lovey,' said the man his eyes roving over Constance as he spoke. 'You don't wanna hurt me...and I don't wanna hurt you, lovey.'

'Get out of my house,' Constance said firmly.

At least she hoped she sounded firm. The man looked strong, despite signs of malnourishment. Constance wondered if he had escaped from the prison. He took a couple of steps towards her, she unconsciously stepped back. She could feel herself shaking, as fear crept through her. She took a couple of deep breaths and concentrated on the things d'Artagnan had said to her about fighting. When the leering man reached out to her, she wanted to get away but knew she should stand her ground, show the man she would not be cowed by him. She tried not to show the man she was scared but knew she had failed.

D'Artagnan's lessons had been gentle, his touch on her arm as he helped her get into prime shooting position, had been welcomed. She did not want the man to touch her, did not want him to be near her.

She wielded her broom, now an improvised weapon, the only thing between her and the dirty man in front of her who was slowly advancing towards her.

'You must be lonely, lovey,' he said as he tried to take the broom from her.

'Get away from me,' Constance said, her voice cracking with fear.

She pushed at the man, taking him by surprise, he stumbled back hitting the bed. Constance took her chance, if she could get out of the house, she could get help, her neighbour was a capable man who would see the stranger gone she was sure. But her escape was not to be. The man managed to grab her wrist as she moved past, he squeezed his hand, causing her to drop the broom. She pulled away as hard as she could, but the man was not going to give her up easily.

Constance opened her mouth to scream, the man seemed to know her every thought, he was already reaching up with his free hand to smother her shout. She tried to push his hand away with her left hand, but he was quicker and had the advantage of size over her. He grabbed at her, tearing her dress in the process. In a moment he had her in his arms holding her tight to him. She could smell his rotten breath as he tried to pull her around and push her face down on to the glass-covered bed.

She lowered her head slightly before moving back, hitting the man in the face with the back of her head. The effect was not much, the man still had hold of her, but he had loosened her enough as he cursed in pain, for Constance to twist around and pull backwards. She managed to pull the man out of the bedroom and into the living area. As he got his wits back the man took advantage of the momentum and pushed Constance towards the table.

Constance twisted again causing them both to hit the table. The man released her left arm, raising his hand to strike her.

'Bitch,' he yelled.

He brought his hand down hard on her face causing her head to snap to the side. She felt tears in her eyes as the sting of the slap made the side of her head hurt. She gasped, continuing to pull away from the man who was trying to twist her around to face the table. She feigned acceptance for a moment, allowing him to push her over the table.

Then she struck back, kicking her heel into his shin hard enough for the man to howl in pain, finally letting her go completely. Constance spun around, grabbing a jug of water in the process, without thinking she smashed the jug into the side of the man's head. The jug, which already had a crack or two, splintered over the man's face and neck leaving him covered in cuts and shards of porcelain sticking into him. The jug had been an expensive wedding gift from Bonaciaux's parents. Constance had always hated it.

The man dropped to the floor like a stone. He lay still, blood trickling from the numerous cuts to his face and neck.

Constance stared at the man for several seconds before looking at her hand. She was still holding the handle of the jug, her knuckles white where they were curled around all that was left of the gift. Her hand was covered in small cuts, her wrist was already dark with bruises.

She blinked a few times before looking at the unconscious intruder. At least she thought he was unconscious.

What if she had killed him?

Her breathing was fast, she felt dizzy, she stumbled a few steps away and crumpled to the floor, the handle finally slipping from her fingers as she pulled her legs up in front of her. She wanted to be as small as possible.

She could not order her thoughts, so she just sat in the corner of the living room and trembled.

MMMM

D'Artagnan rushed to her side, crouching down. He gently took her right hand looking at the cuts and scratches on her fingers, at the bruise on her wrist. He looked up at his lover to find her looking at something behind him, he twisted around and saw a man lying sprawled on the other side of the table. It did not take d'Artagnan long to work out what had happened.

'Did he…'

He did not want to finish the sentence, did not want to ask the question, did not want to know.

Constance shook her head before fresh tears filled her eyes, as she tried not to let the continued fear get the better of her. He leaned forward and gathered her in his arms. She lost her battle and sobbed into his shoulder. He had seen her upset before, but never so lost. He guessed she had fought the man and now that she was safe the full horror of what might have happened was filling her mind.

'You're safe now,' he soothed.

Constance was not ready to let him go; he was prepared to keep her in his arms forever if necessary. His brave, beautiful, lover had been hurt and he had not been there to protect her. But he was there to keep her from further harm.

He glanced back at the unconscious man in the typical clothes of an asylum inmate. D'Artagnan decided very quickly the man was not going back to the asylum - no - the man was going to prison. Where he probably should have been in the first place.

Once he had calmed his lover down, once he had seen to her injuries and made sure she was not alone, d'Artagnan would be dealing with the man who had attacked her.

And he would be dealing with the man properly.

The End.

**Trigger warning: Attempt sexual assault.**

**Whumpee: Constance. Featuring d'Artagnan.**

**Authors note: There will be more about the asylum breakout...**


	21. Laced Drink

**Laced Drink **

Aramis poured the wine, filling each of the five cups. He leaned back after putting the bottle down. Porthos picked up his cup at the same time as Alberto.

'This is good,' said the Spaniard with a smile towards Athos.

Porthos nodded his agreement, 'Thomas knows his wine,' he said with a glance at Athos.

Alberto took another sip, savouring the taste. The lithe man was watching them all carefully. Aramis wondered if the man knew they were not tradesmen and merchants who had happened to be travelling through the small border town at the same time as he was. Aramis wondered if Alberto knew they were Musketeers trying to get a confession of theft from him.

'Tell us more about your business, monsieur,' said d'Artagnan, who had taken on the role of potential investor or buyer in the Spaniards work.

Alberto paused before he spoke. Aramis again wondered if the man knew who they really were, he seemed to pick his answers to their questions carefully. But that could just be his wary criminal mind not trusting anyone.

'I have come into some artwork, my Uncle left it to me in his will.'

'Your Uncle?'

Alberto looked at Porthos carefully for a second, the man was definitely very cautious of them all. Aramis was convinced the thief knew. They had tried, but perhaps they had tried too hard. The thief must have expected people to come after him. His earlier attempt to sell on the stolen art had been reported and his trail had been picked up easily. The man had higher value items than he was used to dealing with. He had not covered his tracks well.

'My Uncle sold art, when he died the pieces he still had came to me.'

Alberto took another sip of his wine.

'I'd like to see what you have,' d'Artagnan said. 'I might be able to sell some on, I have many connections, perhaps you could offer a commission for a sale?'

Aramis approved of the slight change in direction d'Artagnan had taken. They had originally wanted the man to sell the art to them, with the intention of arresting him. But his wary nature had made it unlikely he could sell to a total stranger. D'Artagnan had effectively offered to act as a go-between rather than a buyer. Alberto seemed intrigued. Porthos leaned into d'Artagnan, ready to add his support to the ruse.

'You'll need to see the pieces,' said Porthos, 'need to check the quality-'

Athos sighed loudly, causing all of them to look at him, 'what does Charles know of art?' he asked nonchalantly.

D'Artagnan made a show of looking suitably put out.

'I will look at the art. I know what I am looking at,' continued Athos.

Alberto was following the exchange carefully. Aramis decided it was time to sell their plan.

'Thomas does know his art, as well as his wine,' he said. 'I've seen his collection.'

Alberto thought for a moment before speaking again, 'monsieur, why don't you want to sell my art? Or buy it? If you are such an expert?'

Alberto looked at Athos.

'I have other business opportunities to follow at this time,' Athos said in a dismissive tone.

'And I am the one who offered to sell them,' said d'Artagnan in an obvious attempt to get the conversation back on track.

'Can we see this art then?' asked Porthos.

Alberto leaned back and shook his head. D'Artagnan made a gesture indicating his confusion. Alberto smiled, a slow, sly, smile.

'Because, monsieur,' said the Spanish thief, 'I am not a fool, I am not going to do what you want to me to do.'

The Musketeers all looked at each other, affecting confused expressions. Alberto laughed.

'You are good,' he said. 'But I am better.'

Aramis wondered when they had been found out. They were not going to get a simple confession from the man of the theft, and he was not going to show off his stolen art.

With no warning the man stood up, knocking the table as he did so. All the cups and the wine bottle tipped over, spilling their contents across the wood to drip to the stone floor.

'How dare you!' shouted the thief, pointing a finger at d'Artagnan. 'If I were inclined, I would challenge you to a duel.'

The landlord of the tavern, a man of large build, walked purposefully to their table, two burly locals in tow.

'If you lot want to fight, you can take it outside-'

'My apologies,' said Alberto with a smile. 'A misunderstanding. More wine for my friends and I.'

The thief pushed a few coins into the landlord's hand. The landlord looked at the money, nodding his approval. He made a polite bow before indicating to the serving girl to get the requested wine.

'I know you are soldiers,' said Alberto as he retook his seat and waited for them to join him at the table. 'If you are found out of uniform here,' he indicated their surroundings, 'just over the border - in Spain - you'll be classed as spies...and shot.'

The Musketeers did not respond. The thief had very effectively taken any control they thought they had and turned it against them. Alberto smiled at the serving girl as she lay a tray down and moved the wine and fresh cups onto the table, collecting the fallen cups and bottle before she went. He poured the wine and placed a cup in front of each of them. Aramis glanced around, noticing that some of the other patrons were still watching them.

'Best not to draw any more attention to yourselves,' said Alberto with a smirk.

They all took a drink of the wine, trying to give the impression that the disagreement had been settled. Aramis looked around again, the men that had been watching them had gone back to their drinks. But the threat from Alberto remained. They were in a town that was comprised of both French and Spanish speaking inhabitants, but it was, as Alberto had pointed out, just over the border into Spain. They did not want to risk being outed as French soldiers out of uniform. The recovery of the stolen art would have to wait.

An uneasy truce settled on the table; the Musketeers continued their facade of travelling traders. Alberto spent the time smugly watching them and sipping his wine.

As he drained his cup and pushed his chair back, he smiled. He carefully stepped around his chair and pushed it back under the table. Aramis knew they would follow him as soon as he left the tavern, but Alberto had other ideas. He leaned over the table, they all leaned forward as he started to speak.

'I know you want to follow me...that is your mission after all. But with one of you compromised...I think you will have more pressing issues.'

'Compromised?' asked Aramis.

The thief smiled, his annoying smile, 'yes. I have slipped a little something into Thomas' wine.'

They all glanced at Athos, who looked a little surprised.

'You really shouldn't let a criminal pour you a drink.'

Aramis grabbed Alberto's arm, 'what did you give him?'

Alberto pulled his arm away and made a show of smoothing the sleeve down.

'He'll be fine...after a while...you'll just have to keep an eye on him. There is no antidote, you just have to wait.'

Athos glared at the thief. Aramis noticed he had paled, and his breathing had sped up. He doubted the drug was affecting him so quickly, but the fear and the anger were. Alberto smiled again. He straightened up.

'Goodbye, messieurs,' he said, before putting his hat on and simply walking away.

Aramis turned his attention to Athos.

'I don't feel ill,' Athos said in answer to the question that did not need to be asked.

'Yet,' said Porthos.

'He could be lying,' suggested d'Artagnan, who was looking at the door the thief had walked out of.

'I'm not prepared to take that risk,' said Aramis. 'We also need to monitor ourselves. He might not have only drugged Athos.'

'Athos?'

Porthos had his hand on Athos' shoulder. Athos was blinking and taking deep breaths.

'I feel...odd,' the drugged Musketeer said.

Aramis, who was sat opposite his friend, leaned over the table to get a better look at Athos. The light in the tavern was dim, as the afternoon turned to evening.

'He does look flushed... Do you feel hot?'

Athos nodded, allowing d'Artagnan to subtly feel the skin of his forearm. D'Artagnan nodded his agreement.

'Let's get back...to the camp,' said Athos, his voice slurred, causing the words to run into one another.

He went to stand up but stumbled causing his chair to topple backwards. Porthos tried to grab it but was too late. The loud crash caused the tavern to go instantly quiet, with all the patrons looking in their direction. Athos stumbled to the side. D'Artagnan was able to grab his arm to prevent him following the chair to the floor.

'Out! Now!' yelled the landlord.

Porthos picked the fallen chair up before taking Athos' other arm. Between them, Porthos and d'Artagnan guided an increasingly limp and confused Athos from the tavern.

Aramis gave the landlord his most charming smile, 'my most humble apologies. We will take our friend and leave you in peace.'

He picked up Athos' hat and followed his friends out into the street. The sight that greeted him was not what he had hoped to see, although Aramis was not sure what he had hoped to see. Not two of his friends forcefully holding another against a wall. He hurried across to them.

'I'm fine. Getoffme,' slurred Athos.

'You are not fine,' d'Artagnan said as he adjusted his grip.

Athos was trying to push both the Musketeers away from him.

'Let him go,' suggested Aramis. 'He won't go far, not in that state.'

Porthos raised his eyebrows for a second but did as Aramis said. D'Artagnan eased his grip but remained close.

Athos stepped away from the wall. He straightened up and took two steps before his knees buckled. D'Artagnan grabbed him again. Athos tried to push away but seemed to be losing his coordination. Aramis nodded to Porthos who retook his spot on the other side of their drugged friend.

'Back to the camp,' said Aramis.

Athos looked up; his eyes focused.

'Sorry,' he said. 'It's getting worse. I don't want to hurt any of you…' he took a few breaths before continuing, 'if you need to...restrain me…'

Aramis nodded sadly, 'we'll look after you.'

All they could do was hope Athos would not suffer too much from whatever had been slipped into his drink.

The End.

**Authors note: This will be concluded in the next chapter.**

**Whumpee: Athos. Featuring all four.**


	22. Hallucinations

**Hallucinations**

**Authors note: this is a follow on from yesterday.**

Athos was aware of the crackle of the fire next to him. He felt relaxed, warm, and safe. He thought back to the previous night. As the drug he had been slipped had taken effect on him he had felt awful. The drug had made him violent. What had frightened him the most was that he had known he was fighting his friends, but at the same time, he could not stop himself.

He knew that even if he had not suggested it, they would have been forced to restrain him. Athos gently pulled at his wrists. He could feel the straps cutting into his wrists slightly. Now that the drug had worn off, he did not need to be tied up.

Slowly opening his eyes, Athos was surprised to see that it was still dark. Or had he slept the entire day and into the next night?

He managed to push himself up to sit. The camp was in disarray, their kit was scattered across the clearing. The pot from their dinner was tipped over, the stew spilling onto the dirt they had cleared around the fire.

Porthos lay a few yards away, sprawled across his belongings, a wound, sluggishly bleeding on his head.

Aramis was lying, quite still, against his saddle. He looked peaceful, apart from the bruises on his face and the bloody bandage on his wrist.

Athos was sure they were both dead.

He slowly looked around, fully alert. He could not see d'Artagnan and he could not see who was responsible for attacking them. Had they taken d'Artagnan? He wondered why he had been left alone and where d'Artagnan was.

Athos shifted slightly, finding a rock behind him, a sharp edge cutting into his fingers. He pushed the edge of the leather strap against the rock. He knew it would take a while, but he would be able to free himself. He looked at the fire, not wishing to look at the bodies of his friends, as he worked.

'I see you're awake,' came a familiar voice.

Alberto.

The thief had followed them back to their camp. Perhaps he had watched his friend being forced to tie him down as he fought back. Athos stared at the thief. He could not comprehend how the tall, dark-haired, art thief had managed to kill two of his friends. Kill two highly trained soldiers.

Alberto calmly walked towards him. Athos could feel the anger within him rise. He glared at the man responsible for the deaths of his friends. As the sharp rock sliced through the leather keeping his wrists bound behind him, Athos plotted his revenge.

MMMM

_Two hours earlier…_

'Athos, it's us,' said Aramis.

D'Artagnan wondered how many times he and his friends had tried to convince Athos that they were not the enemy. As they had reached their camp Athos had started to see things that were not there. It had taken Porthos and himself a lot of effort to get the struggling man to the floor. Aramis had reluctantly tried to bind Athos' arms behind him with a belt.

Athos had managed to pull one arm free and punch out at Aramis, knocking the unsuspecting Musketeer backwards.

'You alright?' asked Porthos over his shoulder as he firmly pushed Athos back down.

Aramis looked a little dazed but nodded.

'Get away from me...I won't let you have it.'

Athos looked angry as he spoke and struggled.

'Watch out,' said Aramis from behind them.

The warning was too late, Athos moved his head back before butting Porthos hard causing him to almost lose his grip on the drugged man. D'Artagnan practically threw himself over Athos, pinning him down with his own weight.

Athos was trying to push him off, but d'Artagnan was determined, he knew both Porthos and Aramis would be there within a few seconds. They manipulated Athos together. Porthos grabbed Athos' left arm and twisted it back, causing their reluctant captive to cry out in pain. Aramis pushed Athos' right arm around as d'Artagnan slipped the belt around his wrists and pulled it tight. Tighter than he would have liked, but they needed to get control of their friend.

As Aramis leaned back to give Porthos and d'Artagnan some space, Athos fought back a second time. Kicking out quickly he made contact with Aramis' wrist, leaving a bloody graze before Porthos managed to kneel across the back of Athos' legs. D'Artagnan was quick to strap another belt around the fighting man's shins.

'I will not tell you,' mumbled Athos.

D'Artagnan wondered what Athos was referring to, a previous mission, or something completely from his own mind.

'He's getting weaker,' said Porthos quietly.

Athos continued to struggle for several minutes. Aramis, his sleeve bloody, kept Athos' head still, stopping him from injuring himself.

'He's passed out,' said Aramis when their friend finally stopped struggling.

D'Artagnan eased his grip slowly, ready to retake his place if Athos started to fight again.

'I'll keep an eye on him for now,' said Porthos. 'Although, don't go too far,' he added grimly.

D'Artagnan looked at the bruise forming on Porthos' forehead.

'I've had worse,' said Porthos with a smile.

'Help me get a bandage on this,' said Aramis, indicating his wrist.

D'Artagnan laughed, 'you can't hide that one, can you?'

The moment of levity at Aramis' expense was welcomed. Aramis nodded his agreement to d'Artagnan's observation.

'No,' he said, 'and if he gets restless again, I don't want him using it against me. He seemed aware enough before.'

D'Artagnan waited for Aramis to wash the nasty grazes before unwinding a bandage and wrapping it around his friend's wrist.

'I think he's going to just sleep it off,' said Porthos as they returned to Athos' side.

D'Artagnan said, 'I'll sort us some food since I'm the only one not injured or drugged.'

'And you're the best cook,' chuckled Porthos.

MMMM

Athos slept soundly as d'Artagnan prepared their meal. Porthos remained by the drugged man as Aramis checked the horses and took a loose circuit around their camp.

D'Artagnan had hated watching Athos struggling against them all, fighting them, thinking they were the enemy. Now that he had passed out, he finally looked calm.

D'Artagnan focused on the stew, they had known they would be away for several days, and Porthos had managed to get together some good quality food for their assignment. They ate together, keeping an eye on Athos from their position sat by the fire.

'You two sleep,' said d'Artagnan, 'or try to. I'll take the first watch.'

Aramis nodded, 'wake us if he gets restless again,' he said.

Once they had finished their meals Aramis and Porthos moved to their respective chosen sleeping spots. D'Artagnan sat quietly by the fire as Aramis stretched out a few feet away, leaning against his saddle. Porthos lay on his bedroll but did not look particularly comfortable. D'Artagnan did not think the men would sleep deeply. They were always alert when they were forced to sleep outside. D'Artagnan hoped they would be rested.

After glancing at Athos, d'Artagnan decided he could stretch his legs for a few minutes without going out of sight of Athos. He quietly wandered past Aramis, who was lying with his injured arm resting on his chest, the bandage was stained by splashes from the stew. Porthos had not settled well and was sleeping in what looked like a most uncomfortable position.

As he passed the fire d'Artagnan smiled at the knocked over the pot. Aramis had underestimated how painful his arm injury was as he had tried to lift the pot to get a second helping. The resulting spilt food had made Porthos laugh for several seconds before becoming concerned that Aramis was really hurt. The suitably embarrassed Aramis had waved his friend off. The incident had lightened the mood for a few minutes before they had settled down for the night.

D'Artagnan stretched his arms and rolled his shoulders. He had not realised how tense he had become whilst restraining Athos. Movement a few yards away drew his attention for a few seconds, he took a few steps forward wondering what the noise was. He found himself smiling when he realised it had just been a night-time creature foraging through the fallen leaves.

He turned back to the camp, his eyes settling on Athos who was sat up and looking around. His friend looked alert and focused. The drug had worn off. D'Artagnan smiled.

'You're awake,' he said as he walked towards his friend.

D'Artagnan's smile fell from his face as Athos leapt to his feet and ran at him. D'Artagnan was too stunned to react. Athos was on him and forcing him to the ground before he managed to fight back, but by then it was too late. Athos managed to punch him in the face a couple of times. D'Artagnan's head snapped to the side. He looked for Porthos and Aramis, but neither man had reacted. As he went to shout for help Athos hit him again leaving him stunned for a few seconds. Athos continued to hit him, moving to straddle him, pinning him to the ground making it difficult for him to breathe.

'What have you done with d'Artagnan?'

D'Artagnan blinked, staring at his confused friend, unable to form a reply as the punches continued to rain down on him. He felt pathetic for not reacting quicker, for not being able to get Athos off him, but the attack had been so quick and unexpected from the seemingly unconscious and restrained man.

D'Artagnan wondered if Athos would go on to attack Porthos and Aramis? Was he even aware of what he was doing?

MMMM

Porthos wondered if he was imagining things. He was convinced he could hear a fight going on. He realised he had been lying awkwardly over his bedroll, he had managed to pull a muscle in his leg restraining Athos and had struggled to get comfortable as he tried to sleep. He must have slept a little, but the worry about Athos had left him unable to rest properly.

The unmistakable sound of a punch made him look across their camp.

The sight that greeted him made him scramble up and shout for help. Aramis, who had been dozing a few yards away, propped up on his saddle, blinked a couple of times before leaping to his feet.

The object of their attention had not noticed their rushed approach. Porthos did not hold back, he suspected d'Artagnan did not have the time for him to wait. He launched himself at Athos, grabbing him bodily, throwing him to the ground before punching him in the head. Athos was weakly pushing at him, the fight seemed to leave him once Porthos had stopped his assault on d'Artagnan. With little ceremony, Porthos twisted Athos onto his front and went about restraining him again. The leather belt that had been used to restrain him the first time lay on the ground a few feet away, the leather worn through. Porthos had to ensure Athos could not use the same means to get loose again. It was clear that whatever he had been drugged with was still affecting him. Porthos hated to do it but he knew he had to for all their sakes.

'D'Artagnan?' asked Porthos.

Aramis was knelt by their friend who was taking hard, ragged breaths.

'It's bad.'

The words from Aramis were said without any preamble, Porthos looked at Athos, hoping their friend had not just been responsible for causing d'Artagnan serious harm.

'How did this happen?' asked Aramis as he gently pushed d'Artagnan's head from side to side.

'I was asleep, I think, dozing maybe, like you,' stated Porthos. 'I just heard them fighting.'

'How did he get free?'

'Rubbed the strap on a sharp rock,' replied Porthos, 'don't know why he attacked d'Artagnan.'

Athos started to struggle again, but Porthos was able to hold him on the ground with little effort.

'What have you done with him? Where is he?' Athos asked the words said with an element of panic to them.

Porthos looked at Aramis, his brow furrowed. Aramis shook his head. It was d'Artagnan who hoarsely answered their question.

'He thought I was Alberto...I couldn't stop...him...make him...understand.'

'Shh…' Aramis admonished gently, 'whilst we're pleased, you're with us, you need to be quiet, rest your voice.'

Porthos looked back at Athos who was glaring at d'Artagnan.

'You killed them...none of us hurt you.'

Porthos sighed as he went back to keeping Athos firmly pinned to the ground. As had happened before, Athos gradually weakened before passing out. Porthos risked leaving the drugged man for a few seconds to collect more belts. He glanced at Aramis who nodded his approval. Once Athos was very firmly secured Porthos felt able to assist Aramis looking after their injured friend.

D'Artagnan had suffered a sustained attack. Porthos guessed the Musketeer had initially not fought back, because the man attacking him was Athos. The injured man had been punched repeatedly, probably leaving him stunned. Porthos had seen Athos straddling the helpless d'Artagnan, his hands around the younger man's throat was not something he thought he would forget for a very long time. D'Artagnan had been trying to pull Athos off him but failing miserably.

Aramis was feeling across d'Artagnan's chest, d'Artagnan was breathing shallowly.

'I don't think anything's broken,' said Aramis. 'I'll clean him up, but he'll not be getting on a horse for a bit.'

Porthos noticed d'Artagnan's expression, 'you're not to blame. We all decided to leave him to sleep it off. If we hadn't decided to set up a watch, this could have been a lot worse.'

D'Artagnan managed a pained smirk.

'Not sure it could be much worse,' remarked Aramis.

MMMM

Athos was aware of the crackle of the fire next to him. He felt relaxed, warm, and safe. He thought back to the previous night. As the drug he had been slipped had taken effect on him he had felt awful. The drug had made him violent. What had frightened him the most was that he had known he was fighting his friends, but at the same time, he could not stop himself.

He knew that even if he had not suggested it, they would have been forced to restrain him. Athos gently pulled at his wrists. He could feel the straps cutting into his wrists slightly. Now that the drug had worn off, he did not need to be tied up.

Slowly opening his eyes, Athos was surprised to see that it was still dark. Or had he slept the entire day and into the next night?

Porthos was looking down at him with nothing short of suspicion.

'What did I do?' Athos asked.

His voice sounded odd to him; had he been shouting?

'What do you remember?' asked Porthos.

Athos was worried, Porthos had made no move to help him to sit up or offered him water.

'I remember struggling against you all. I think I hit you and kicked Aramis…'

Porthos nodded slowly.

'What else did I do?'

Porthos glanced away for a few seconds before responding. Athos wondered what or who he had looked at.

'You attacked d'Artagnan. You got yourself free and you beat him...you thought he was Alberto. You tried to kill him.'

Athos tried to twist over onto his back and look around. He realised he had leather straps around his arms and chest and two more keeping his legs and ankles tied. The restraints were as tight as they could be without causing him injury.

'Is he? Is he…'

Porthos finally moved forward, helping him to sit up, steadying him.

D'Artagnan was lying a few yards away, Aramis was sat with him, a damp cloth in his hand. Athos guessed his friend had been cleaning d'Artagnan up. D'Artagnan was covered in bruising and grazes. Athos realised he had been responsible, he looked at Porthos.

'I did that?'

Porthos nodded.

'You were drugged, Athos,' said Aramis. 'You weren't yourself.'

Athos felt hands on him, Porthos was undoing the strap that was around his chest, pinning his arms to him.

'Are you sure it is safe...the drug…'

'The drug must have worn off now. It's been many hours since you were affected,' said Porthos.

Athos allowed Porthos to untie him, although he worried that he might still be under the influence of the drug. He slowly moved to stand, Porthos steadied him. He took a few shaky steps towards d'Artagnan before kneeling.

'I remember being convinced that he was Alberto. I thought that you two had been killed and that d'Artagnan was missing. It is like a bad dream, but it is real.'

Athos realised that d'Artagnan was looking at him, the young man smiled.

'I don't blame you,' he said, his voice quiet and croaky.

Athos looked at the bruising on d'Artagnan neck.

Porthos squeezed his shoulder. Athos knew none of his friends would blame him for what he had done, but that did not make it any easier.

'I know, but that will not stop me from blaming myself,' he said quietly.

The End.

**Whumpees: All four.**


	23. Bleeding Out

**Bleeding Out**

**Authors note: This follows on from Chapter 13, where Athos is attacked by a pair of dogs, and links with chapters two and three (the ones where d'Artagnan got caught in an explosion and gave Athos some notes that he made - I know it's a while ago).**

'Athos?'

Aramis walked with increasing pace towards his friend. The Musketeer had walked through the gate at one of the rare moments it was unguarded. He was leaning heavily on the wall, his right arm held tightly in front of him. As he stumbled forward bruises on his face were revealed. A nasty graze on his forehead added to his beaten appearance.

The Musketeer looked at Aramis as he reached him.

'I didn't get it,' he slurred before crumpling to the ground.

Aramis yelled for help before kneeling by the unconscious man. Making a lightning assessment of his friend's health proved difficult, Athos was lying on his side, his face towards the ground, his obviously injured arm prevented Aramis from undoing Athos doublet.

'What happened?' asked Porthos from behind him.

Aramis twisted around, 'he just turned up like this, said something about not getting it, before passing out.'

Two cadets had appeared behind Porthos. Aramis indicated for them to help him.

'Tell Treville,' said Aramis to Porthos. 'This must have something to do with whatever it was that d'Artagnan found out.'

Porthos nodded, 'I think it's about time we were let in on whatever this is all about.'

As Porthos hurried off to update their Captain, Aramis followed the cadets who were carrying the unconscious Musketeer into the infirmary.

'You stay right there,' said Aramis as he passed a very concerned d'Artagnan. 'I'm not having you collapsing whilst I deal with this.'

D'Artagnan nodded and remained where he was.

'Remy,' Aramis turned to the blond cadet. 'I need you to find the physician, ask him to come here. I may not need him, but as we now have two ailing soldiers, I think it would be worth his while to visit.'

The cadet left to follow his order. Aramis glanced at d'Artagnan.

'I don't know what happened,' Aramis said in answer to the unasked question. 'But we think it has something to do with whatever you found out...you don't happen to have remembered yet?'

D'Artagnan shook his head. Aramis sighed and returned his attention to Athos. The other cadet, Paul, was about to touch Athos' arm.

'No,' said Aramis. 'It's injured in some way. We'll cut his jacket; I don't know where else he's hurt.'

The cadet moved to a cupboard and began to gather cloths and bandages.

'There are scissors to your left,' said Aramis as he started to gently feel his friend's arm.

Athos groaned but did not wake up.

'What have you two been up to?' wondered Aramis with a glance to d'Artagnan.

The other injured Musketeer shook his head.

'I still have no idea. I'm sorry.'

Paul had found the scissors, he handed them to Aramis who glanced at Athos apologetically before starting to carefully cut his friend's doublet. Between them, Aramis and Paul carefully eased the jacket off his friend. Aramis' eyes went wide when Athos' shirt was revealed. Bloodstained a large portion of the once white fabric. Aramis quickly ripped the shirt to reveal a wound which was still bleeding. Grabbing one of the cloths, Aramis pressed it to the wound. The move caused Athos to moan again.

'Hold him still. He can't move too much…'

Paul did as he was told, pushing Athos arms down, pinning him to the bed.

'What is it?' asked d'Artagnan from across the room.

'He's been shot or stabbed. I don't know which. It's still bleeding...I need help - not from you - from the doctor. This needs proper care, more than I can give.'

Aramis knew he could give rudimentary help, he could deal with most battlefield injuries in the first instance, but he was no surgeon, and that was what Athos needed.

The door to the infirmary was pushed open. Porthos appeared, leading Treville.

'I've sent one of the cadets for the doctor,' said Aramis with only a glance at the new arrivals.

Treville looked at Athos for a few seconds before moving to Aramis' side. He eased Aramis' hands away, replacing them with his own.

'Deal with his other injuries. The less that will need to be done when the doctor arrives the better.'

Aramis nodded. His Captain was right. He could still help his friend even if he could not deal with what he hoped was the most serious injury.

MMMM

'Paul,' said Treville, 'find more cloths...make them if you have to. Fresh linen cut it up. Find someone to help you.'

Paul nodded and rushed from the room. Porthos moved across to Treville who had just changed the cloth covering Athos' wound. He wadded up the next cloth.

'I'll take over,' he said, wanting to help his injured friend.

Treville nodded.

'Just keep firm pressure on it,' said Aramis without looking up.

Porthos watched Aramis gently feeling along Athos bruised forearm. They had all been shocked at the severity of the bruises.

'I'm sure it's not broken, just really badly bruised. I'll strap it up for now. The doctor may suggest something else.'

Treville stepped back to allow Porthos to replace the pressure on the wound to Athos' side. The wound was still bleeding, the floor of the infirmary was littered with bloody cloths. The Cadet was still watching the wounded man carefully, ready to restrain Athos if necessary. Porthos had not seen any further sign of their friend coming around. The lack of any response from Athos was a mixed blessing, it meant he did not have to be restrained but they also had no idea what had happened to him.

Despite being in the room for some time, Treville had not enlightened them as to what Athos had been doing. D'Artagnan was still suffering from memory loss after his head injury so was as much in the dark as Porthos and Aramis.

The door was pushed open as the doctor, a sensible man named Henri, entered, closely followed by Remy who looked a little out of breath. Henri put his bag on the table and began to shrug out of his doublet. Remy took the jacket and the man's hat from him.

'Talk to me,' said the no-nonsense doctor.

Aramis straightened up, 'he's been stabbed or shot. I don't know which, the wound is deep and bleeding a lot...I'm already worried he's lost too much…'

The doctor looked over Aramis' shoulder, 'his other injuries?'

'Nothing I can't deal with, monsieur.'

Henri nodded,' then deal with it. Just do not get in my way.'

Aramis nodded, Porthos wondered if Aramis was pleased to be relieved from dealing with the most serious injury. As his friend quietly continued his work, he indicated to Remy to assist him. They worked calmly cleaning and dressing the numerous grazes and cuts Athos had across his body.

Henri looked at Porthos, 'you will assist me. Do as I ask when I ask without question. I shall do all I can to save your friend, although he will be mostly responsible for his own survival.'

Porthos nodded, he knew that half the battle of recovery was down to the injured man to believe he could get better. The doctor eased Porthos hands from the wound for a few seconds. Porthos watched as the blood appeared, spilling from the wound. The doctor made a disapproving sound before indicating for Porthos to reapply the pressure.

'Continued pressure for now. It looks like a narrow blade. No ball to dig out.'

Porthos asked, 'are you going to stitch it?'

The doctor shook his head, 'we will clean it as well as we can, but the chance of infection means I do not want to have to remove any stitches. We will keep a close eye on it.'

Porthos maintained the pressure as the doctor had ordered. He watched Aramis and Remy slowly and methodically working, covering the worst of the other injuries, applying ointments and salves where they could.

Treville huffed with annoyance, Porthos knew that their Captain could not tell them why Athos had been attacked at that moment. Now two Musketeers had been harmed. Porthos wanted to know why. He glanced at d'Artagnan who was watching them work. Treville moved to sit with d'Artagnan. Porthos could hear the pair talking quietly. D'Artagnan told Treville he still could not remember where he was when he had been hurt.

The doctor lay his hand on Porthos' gently pulling them away from the wound. The bleeding had stopped.

'I need to clean it thoroughly. Hold him still.'

Porthos and Aramis moved to hold their friend down. As the doctor began to clean the stab wound Athos reacted, his eyes opened wide and he cried out in pain. He tried to pull away from his friends. The doctor worked quickly, using a mixture of his own creation to clean the injury. After cleaning the wound and wiping away the blood, Henri covered the wound and awkwardly wrapped a bandage around Athos who was still weakly fighting them all.

As his struggles became weaker, they released him, Athos finally relaxed his breathing settling. Porthos was pleased to see Athos remain conscious, even if he looked a little unfocused.

'There...there was a dog. Two dogs…'

Aramis looked up, 'the bruise on his arm. It could be a bite.'

Porthos watched Athos nod before he continued, 'when I got away from the dogs. I was stopped by two men...I think they were in his pay-'

'Who's pay?' asked Aramis, before pausing and glancing at the doctor.

Henri chuckled, 'I am on my way,' he said. 'You can talk about affairs of state freely.'

Porthos smiled at the doctor, 'thank you.'

'Athos,' said the doctor, 'you lost a lot of blood. You will remain calm and unmoving. You will let them do everything for you.'

The doctor glanced at the other men in the room who all nodded.

'If the wound becomes infected we will deal with it.'

The doctor patted Athos' shoulder, waited for his patient to nod his ascent before stepping away.

'Remy,' said Treville, 'will you show the doctor out?'

Once they were alone the Captain moved to a position where they could all see him, he sighed.

'I think it is time that you all learned what it is that has caused two of you to be nearly killed.'

The End.

**Whumpee: Athos. Featuring all four and Treville.**

**Authors note: I will probably fill in the blanks for this at a later date...once I've worked out what goes in those blanks!**


	24. Secret Injury

**Secret Injury**

D'Artagnan had taken a few minor injuries during his few months with the Musketeers, but what he had just felt was the worst. The sword sliced deeply into his left shoulder. He had been lucky to see the strike coming and twist enough to prevent the blade from slicing his neck. As it was he wondered if he would retain the full use of his arm. He stumbled to the side and tripped over his own feet, crumpling to the floor. He dropped his sword and reached up with his right hand to clutch at his injured shoulder.

The man who had caused the injury stepped forward raising his sword ready to finish the job. He did not get a chance, Aramis, ever-reliable Aramis, appeared, slicing his main gauche across the man's back before pushing him away. D'Artagnan sighed with relief, he had been defenceless at that moment. Perhaps with another couple of seconds, he could have gathered his wits and picked up his sword and continued the fight. But for those few seconds, the pain was all he could deal with.

'Get up!' yelled Aramis. 'There's more of them.'

D'Artagnan blinked a few times, he was surprised by Aramis' tone. The Musketeer had ordered him to continue fighting when he was clearly injured and in no shape to do no more than beat a hasty retreat. What Aramis did next, surprised the Cadet even more.

Aramis grabbed his right arm and hauled him up to stand, keeping him steady for a couple of seconds.

'You can't stop, keep fighting,' Aramis said firmly, before pushing him away a couple of steps.

D'Artagnan glared at Aramis, a man he thought would be sympathetic towards him, but Aramis had already turned his back and raised his sword ready to fight the next group of men that were rounding the corner towards them.

He realised he had no choice but to engage with the men. Two men went for Aramis and two approached him, with evil grins across their faces. With his left arm dangling limply at his side d'Artagnan raised his sword, turning his body slightly to offer a narrower target to the men.

D'Artagnan was forced to put all his concentration into the fight with the two men. Under normal circumstances fighting two men would have been relatively easy. But he was injured, they were in a narrow corridor and the men were well trained. D'Artagnan used everything the Musketeers had taught him, but he could feel himself fading.

He was aware of blood trickling down his arm. He really needed his injury to be tended to. Surely they should have sought a place to hide so that Aramis could have checked him over? D'Artagnan could not understand the man's attitude.

'Finish them off,' yelled Aramis over his shoulder as he sliced the man in front of him with both his sword and main gauche at the same time.

On cue, more men appeared.

D'Artagnan still had enough sense to see that one of the men he was fighting had been distracted by Aramis' shout. D'Artagnan hooked his foot around the man's ankle and sent him to the floor as he pushed his sword into the gut of the second man. Yanking his sword from the dying man's stomach and giving the fallen man a similar injury was the easiest way to deal with him.

The Cadet stepped back a few paces, noting Aramis doing the same. They both needed clear ground for the next fight.

Why not just run, thought d'Artagnan?

'Concentrate, work through the pain,' said Aramis, his words sounded angry, as though he was disappointed with him for getting injured.

D'Artagnan scowled at Aramis as the man turned away from him.

It was harder fighting the next two men, d'Artagnan could feel a horrible dizziness creeping upon him, he stumbled into the wall for a few seconds. If Aramis had not managed to take out one of the men, d'Artagnan was sure they would have simply run him through.

'Deal with it,' shouted Aramis, before he turned back to the big man he was fighting.

D'Artagnan managed to rally himself, he was angry with the way Aramis was treating him, angry that they had stood their ground. It was pointless. They should have just gone after the first group of men had been dealt with. They could have met Athos and Porthos on the road and retreated together. But no, Aramis wanted them to continue fighting, despite the injury d'Artagnan had.

Aramis finished off the big man he was fighting and paused, staring along the corridor. D'Artagnan pushed his sword into his opponent's chest, leaving them both with no further men to fight.

D'Artagnan was breathing hard, he leaned heavily against the wall, staring at Aramis who finally turned to him, his expression unreadable.

'Why didn't we just run?' said d'Artagnan, not wanting to hide the anger in his voice. 'We should have just run. You knew I was injured. I can barely lift a sword, but you made me carry on.'

Aramis just looked at him, blinking a couple of times. The Musketeer did not respond.

'We should have gone; we could have met up with the others and been safe. You made us stay here, we could...we could have...both...been killed…'

D'Artagnan felt himself waver, he reached out his good hand along the wall for extra support. Aramis continued to just watch him. D'Artagnan could not believe he had not even approached him to look at his injury. Did Aramis even care?

Perhaps he really saw him as an expendable Cadet?

He took a breath, he tried to shout at Aramis again, but the creeping greyness to his vision distracted him.

The grey turned to black.

MMMM

They were both tired. It was only a matter of time before one or both of them got injured. Aramis had been annoyed that he had not dodged the dagger as it was drawn across his side. If he had taken the time to do his doublet up and put his weapons belts back on, the man with the close-cut hair and a scar on his neck would not have been able to leave him with quite such a nasty injury. The leather of his doublet would have probably prevented the sharp blade from slicing his skin, his shirt offered no protection. Aramis pushed the man back before repeating the move on him, slicing deeply into the man's side. His sword had more of an effect on the man who stumbled back before falling to the floor.

Aramis did not have time to contemplate his injury, it was not visible, his jacket was covering it. If the enemy did not know he was injured he would not advertise the fact.

As he plunged his sword into the next man, he heard d'Artagnan gasp in pain. He glanced back seeing the shocked Cadet crumple to the floor. Aramis could see the young man was just going to stop. The injury was bad, but d'Artagnan had to carry on. Aramis knew he would not be able to hold off the men that were bound to appear at any second on his own, not whilst he carried his own injury.

'Get up!' he said firmly. 'There's more of them.'

He pulled the Cadet up to stand, steadying him for a few seconds.

'You can't stop, keep fighting.'

D'Artagnan blinked a couple of times. Once Aramis was sure the man would not pass out, he gave him a gentle shove towards the fight that was about to resume with a fresh set of men that had just appeared around the corner.

Leaving d'Artagnan to fight his own battle, hoping the young man would not collapse or be killed in the process, Aramis moved to take on the next two men.

The first was young and skinny, his sallow chested body was malnourished, Aramis knew it would not take much to deal with the man. Sending up a silent prayer of regret and thanks he quickly dispatched the man.

Aramis had a bit more work to do with the second man who at least knew how to wield a sword. They traded blows for several seconds, Aramis was forced to put more effort into the fight than he would have liked. His injured side was screaming, he just wanted to sit down, but to sit down was to die.

A quick glance showed him that d'Artagnan was pale, close to collapse himself. But they had to carry on. The mission depended on it. They had to delay the men, had to prevent them from getting through and getting after Athos and Porthos.

The man in front of him left himself open to attack. Aramis crossed his sword and main gauche in front of him, slicing into the man with both at the same time. The effect was instant.

'Finish them off,' he said with another glance at d'Artagnan.

As the young man did as he was told, his face a mixture of pain and anger, more men appeared. Aramis moved back a few paces, pleased to see the increasingly shaky d'Artagnan do the same.

'Concentrate, work through the pain,' said Aramis, knowing he had to be firm with the cadet.

Aramis was fading, he knew he would not last much longer. He hoped there would be no more men.

The big man that picked on Aramis towered above him. He was not a sword fighter, he was almost using the big sword he carried as a club, his sheer brute strength all the skill he needed. But his hulking form meant that he was slow by Aramis' standards, even carrying an injury Aramis was still faster. A quick slice across the man's wrist left him distracted for a few, valuable seconds.

Aramis glanced at d'Artagnan who was breathing hard, close to passing out and about to be killed by the two men that were in front of him. Aramis swung his sword at the back of the nearest man, ending any part he was to have in the fight.

'Deal with it,' yelled Aramis with a vague gesture at the remaining man.

He went back to the bruising fight with his own opponent who had recovered his wits in the few seconds Aramis was distracted by d'Artagnan. The man reached out and grabbed Aramis by the shoulder, he guessed the brute intended to plunge his sword into him. Aramis was quicker, he plunged his main gauche into the man's chest, being careful to angle the blade to miss the ribs and pierce the man's heart.

As the thug collapsed Aramis had to pull away from him before he got dragged to the ground. He stared along the corridor, waiting for more men. None appeared. The slow realisation that they had done what they needed meant that the fatigue, the pain, the worry for d'Artagnan, assailed him in one fell swoop. He could hear the cadet breathing hard behind him. He turned to look at the young man.

D'Artagnan's anger spilt out in a jumbled, slurred, rant, squarely aimed at him.

'Why didn't we just run? We should have just run. You knew I was injured. I can barely lift a sword, but you made me carry on. We should have gone; we could have met up with the others and been safe. You made us stay here, we could...we could have...both...been killed…'

The more the anger left d'Artagnan the more the fight in him went as well. Aramis could not find a response to the young man. He simply let d'Artagnan shout at him. He knew the cadet was about to collapse, and he knew he could not reach him in time to stop him crashing to the floor. Aramis knew that if he took a step he would crumple as well.

Movement further along the corridor, behind d'Artagnan brought welcome relief. Athos and Porthos were back. The mission had to have been a success. Which made the injuries he and d'Artagnan had sustained worth it.

D'Artagnan had not seen them, he had finally passed out.

Aramis felt his knees buckle. As he sank to the ground Porthos reached him, trying to keep him steady.

MMMM

Leaving Aramis and d'Artagnan fighting in the corridor had been hard, but they knew they had to get the papers out of the chateau and into the hands of the waiting men. The papers would then be taken as fast as the fleetest horse could take them to Paris. But there were too many men, they knew Aramis and d'Artagnan would probably face several waves of men. The guards were dotted around the chateau in threes and fours. They had been lucky to get to the papers without being seen. They had been unlucky to be spotted as they retreated. Aramis and d'Artagnan had been at the back of their little group, Aramis had told them to go as he and the cadet turned to face the guards that were pursuing them.

Athos had hated leaving his friends but knew that Aramis and d'Artagnan would keep most of the guards busy giving him and Porthos a chance to get the precious paperwork to the men who would deliver it where it needed to go.

Now the papers were on their way to Paris. Athos and Porthos retraced their steps with urgency, as they approached the spot, they had left their friends they could hear d'Artagnan talking. The cadet sounded confused, he sounded angry and his venom was aimed at Aramis. As the turned the corner they finally saw their friends, standing amidst a collection of dead guards.

D'Artagnan had his back to them, his sword lying on the floor in front of him as he clutched at a wound to his shoulder, blood seeping through his fingers. Aramis was breathing hard; he was pale and standing slightly oddly. Athos could only conclude that he had also been injured although it was not obvious where.

As they neared the Musketeer and the cadet, d'Artagnan crumpled to the floor. Athos managed to catch him before he hit his head on the flagstones. Porthos moved to Aramis' side guiding the exhausted man to his knees.

'He's injured,' said Aramis.

'Yes, Aramis. I do not think our powers of observation have been taken from us in the short time we have been apart,' muttered Athos in response as he started to ease the cadet's arm from his doublet.

'They just kept coming...I had to shout at him, make him fight...he couldn't see that we had to keep fighting...the pain...it confused him.'

'Yeah, rather like the pain is confusing you now...you realise you won,' said Porthos who was trying to find any injury to his friend.

Athos glanced over, 'his side, there is blood on his shirt,' he said.

Porthos pushed Aramis' doublet open, revealing the red staining that was covering most of the Musketeer's shirt. Aramis looked at the injury for a few seconds.

'There's that as well,' he slurred, 'I think d'Art...agnan...wanted to run, but I don't think...I could have…can you...can you sort him out?'

Athos nodded, 'you have done your job now, Aramis, let us look after him. And you.'

Aramis blinked a few times before nodding slowly once and wilting. Porthos eased the unconscious man to the ground.

MMMM

Porthos shook his head as he pulled the blood-stained shirt away from the wound on Aramis' side. The long straight cut would require a few stitches and cause the Musketeer difficulty moving, they would be lucky to get Aramis on a horse to ride back to Paris.

'How's d'Artagnan?'

Athos was busy ripping a makeshift bandage for their cadet, he answered without looking up.

'It will need stitches,' he said, 'I think we should try to get them both dealt with before they come around. We are alone now; we should take advantage of that.'

Porthos nodded as he pulled his bandana off and wadded it up to press on the wound on Aramis' side. He used his own weapons belt to secure the temporary bandage.

'If he'd had time to do up his doublet and put his belts back on this probably wouldn't have happened,' Porthos remarked.

They had been forced to move at speed once they had the papers, Aramis, who had taken off his doublet to reach the papers had no time to redress properly during their hasty retreat.

Porthos left Aramis where he was as he moved across the corridor to Athos and looked down at the unconscious cadet beside him.

'I bet he must have felt a little hard done by, with Aramis forcing him to continue fighting when all he probably wanted to do was collapse in a heap.'

Athos nodded, he glanced up at the nearest door. Porthos took the hint and tried the handle, the door opened on a room with several pieces of furniture covered in dust sheets. He walked into the room, throwing up dust and cobwebs as he went. After carefully pulling the sheets off a couple of couches he moved to the shuttered window and threw them open. The room was filled with enough light for them to deal with the injured men. Porthos returned to his friends.

As gently as they could they carried the two unconscious men to the couches.

'We'll deal with d'Artagnan first,' said Porthos. 'You know what Aramis will be like if he comes around and finds out he was first to get stitched up.'

Athos chuckled as he walked back to the door, 'I will get his medical kit and some water.'

Porthos looked around the room, spotting a few dusty bottles of spirits on a side table, he looked through them, finding the one that looked the most expensive. He wanted nothing but the best for his friends. As he waited for Athos to return, he busied himself ripping up a tablecloth he had found into strips and squares ready to dress the wounds when they had been stitched.

Athos returned carrying Aramis' medical bag under one arm and a lumpy bundle wrapped in a cloth under the other.

'Food I liberated from the kitchen,' he said as he lay the bundle on a sideboard before crossing to the unconscious men.

Porthos nodded his approval.

They worked in silence, neither man needed direction. Athos stitched whilst Porthos held each man in turn. They did not want their patient to regain consciousness and move or fight them in their confusion and pain.

As Porthos cleaned up a few grazes on Aramis' arms, no doubt picked up as he squeezed through the ridiculous trap door to get the papers, he watched Athos gently push d'Artagnan down.

The cadet had shown signs of coming around for several minutes. When he opened his eyes, he had tried to move too quickly and ended up moaning in pain.

'You are safe, d'Artagnan,' said Athos calmly. 'We are all here. The enemy is dealt with. Aramis is fine, he is over there with Porthos.'

Porthos knew Athos was trying to answer the questions the no doubt confused man would have as he woke up.

D'Artagnan took a few minutes to settle himself, Athos helped him to sit up a little. They had gathered all the cushions from around the room ready to help the injured men get comfortable. The cadet looked across to Aramis, a look of annoyance crossing his face.

'He knew I was in no shape to fight-'

'Before you start,' said Athos, holding a hand up to silence the young man. 'You need to understand that what Aramis did...he did it to keep you both alive.'

D'Artagnan scowled at Athos, Porthos almost chuckled.

'I was injured, I could barely move my arm-'

'You have two arms, d'Artagnan. And you had more opponents than Aramis could deal with on his own-'

'But we could have run. Hidden.'

Porthos rolled his eyes, 'then there would have been nothing to stop them coming after us. We had the papers, if we had been caught, the papers would have been taken back...never to be seen again.'

D'Artagnan looked at Porthos for a few seconds before looking at the unconscious form of Aramis lying on the couch opposite him.

'So he...he made me fight to keep the papers safe...the papers were more important...I didn't think about the bigger picture…' d'Artagnan sighed. 'But he was shouting at me-'

'Because you needed to be shouted at,' said Athos. 'He needed you fighting.'

D'Artagnan looked at Aramis again, 'he's injured...when did that happen?'

'During the fight, you were both in,' said Athos, a little sarcastically.

The cadet looked away for a few seconds, his brow furrowed.

Porthos smirked, 'you would not believe how good he is at hiding injuries. The times that he has kept going until he is practically dead. He will not rest until everyone else is safe. You still have a lot to learn about soldiering.'

D'Artagnan nodded, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment at his misplaced accusations.

Aramis stirred, opening his eyes slowly. Porthos smiled at him.

'Is d'Artagnan..?'

Porthos glanced at the cadet and tilted his head slightly, 'you see what I mean. Not interested in his own welfare, only yours...even after you shouted at him.'

Aramis turned his head to look at d'Artagnan and smiled.

'I'm sorry I was firm with you,' he said.

D'Artagnan still looked confounded by the whole situation.

'I'm sorry I shouted at you,' replied d'Artagnan after a few seconds of thought.

Aramis nodded his acceptance of the apology.

'You are young, you will learn,' said Athos.

Porthos knew his friend was right. The impetuous cadet was well on the way to making an impetuous Musketeer and sometimes there was nothing wrong with that, he just needed to learn when to rein in his temper.

Which they all knew he would.

The End.

**Whumpee: Aramis (it's called 'Secret Injury' - of course, it's Aramis!) and d'Artagnan. Featuring Athos and Porthos.**


	25. Humiliation

**Humiliation**

**Authors note: Remember chapter one - Shaky Hands? This is the prequel to it. **

Athos watched their captor warily. The man, in his fifties, was strong, he had the physique of a brawler and the scars to go with it. Athos guessed the man was not the mastermind behind their capture, but the hired help to get it done. The man knew what he was doing. He had expertly taken them all out as they were returning from their rendezvous. The low-profile mission had meant they were relaxed. The information they carried was not particularly important. Aramis and d'Artagnan had glanced at the papers but not bothered to read them thoroughly, only Athos had read every page. The talk of troop numbers and inconsequential movements was of little interest to him. Although it appeared to be of interest to someone. Now they did not have the paperwork having passed it onto the next person who would take it further south.

They had stopped to water the horses in a pleasant clearing away from the road, it was secluded, perfect for the ambush. The thug knew what he was doing.

His approach had been silent and swift. He had managed to effectively hobble Aramis with a bolas, forcing the Musketeer to the ground to untangle the rope from his ankles. At the same time, he had hit d'Artagnan across the back of the head hard enough to see the young Musketeer sprawl to the ground stunned. Before Athos could aim his gun, the man had pulled the confused d'Artagnan up to kneel and pushed his own gun into the man's neck.

A second, younger thug had appeared and carefully restrained both Athos and Aramis before d'Artagnan received the same treatment. Of course, they had complained but the man had simply reinforced his status of captor by pressing the gun harder into the side of d'Artagnan's head.

'I know you read the intelligence,' said the man, his thick Spanish accent distorting the words.

They remained silent. Athos knew neither Aramis or d'Artagnan would be able to answer any questions, they had merely glanced at the dull lists and instructions. Athos made sure he kept his expression neutral he could not give himself away, but the man seemed to know that he had read the intelligence.

'You will tell me what was in the papers,' he said looking at Athos who did not react.

The man nodded to himself, then smiled.

'I am prepared to persuade you,' he glanced at Aramis and d'Artagnan. 'And I have two very good forms of persuasion sat right there.'

'We won't talk,' said Aramis in as blasé a tone as he could manage.

The man smiled at him, 'you do not need to talk, only he needs to talk.'

Aramis glanced at Athos, 'alright, he won't talk. We're trained for this.'

The man's smile broadened, 'I know, which makes it more fun.'

Athos could see the sadistic twinkle in the man's eyes. He wished he had not read the intelligence. They were not to know they were being observed, it probably was not even their captor that had observed him reading the intelligence, he had probably been told by someone else who had been spying on them.

The man looked at the second man.

'Luc,' he said, 'get the bottles and glasses.'

The young man nodded and walked away. Athos wondered what the man was going to do to Aramis and d'Artagnan in order to get him to talk. D'Artagnan still looked unfocused after being hit, Athos hoped his friend would not have to endure much pain before the man realised, they were not going to talk.

'Tell me what was in the papers,' said the man, looking at Athos. 'Or I will be forced to hurt one of your friends here.'

Athos remained silent, he knew his friends would not begrudge him, they would have done the same. The intelligence may have been dull, but it was still intelligence, it could not simply be given up.

The man stepped forward and kicked Aramis' thigh. The kick was not as hard as it could have been, but it was enough to knock Aramis off balance for a few seconds and caused him to have to hide a grimace.

Neither Athos nor d'Artagnan reacted. Athos continued to watch the man while d'Artagnan just looked ahead, his slightly unfocused gaze not on anything in particular.

Luc returned with a bag, he pulled out two bottles and two small cups, handing them to the man.

'I checked the road, Michal,' he said, 'we're alone.'

The man nodded, 'good...you can cry out in pain if needs be,' he said to the two Musketeers at his feet.

Athos was trying to work out what Michal was going to do with the bottles of spirit and the glasses.

'Tell me what was in the papers.'

When Athos did not respond Michal smiled. He crouched in front of Aramis as Luc moved to stand by d'Artagnan a gun held loosely in his hand. Athos knew Aramis would not jeopardise d'Artagnan's safety. Athos had not considered the manner that they had each been bound when he was being restrained, he now realised that both Aramis and d'Artagnan had their hands tied in front of them, the rope wrapped several times around their wrists leaving them with limited use of their fingers. Michal pushed one of the small glasses into Aramis hands.

'Don't drop that. If you drop it, I will hit your friend. Do you understand?'

Aramis furrowed his brow but nodded.

'Good. This is how it works. I am going to ask him to tell me what the intelligence is, he will not respond...we all know it will take a while for him to break...I will then pour some of this very expensive spirit into your glass. You will drink it. If you do not drink it, I will hit your unfocused friend over there.'

Michal nodded towards d'Artagnan who looked confused. The second glass had been put into his hands by Luc.

Michal waited until he had d'Artagnan's full attention, 'you will then be given some of my very expensive spirit and you will drink it, or I will hit him.'

Michal nodded towards Aramis who was now scowling at their captor. Athos found the plan quite inventive. He knew the alcohol would inhibit both of his friend's abilities and if they were to drink too much they would pass out. Athos understood how alcohol worked, he wondered if Michal knew he liked his wine as well. The man seemed to know everything else.

The three Musketeers watched as Michal unstopped the bottle. He inhaled the aroma before carefully pouring some into the small glass that Aramis was holding. Aramis looked at the liquid for a few seconds.

Michal shook his head with a sigh, 'you will need to be quicker than that.'

Luc slapped d'Artagnan.

'Try again,' said Michal with a pointed look at the glass in Aramis' hands.

Aramis drank the spirit in one gulp.

'Well done,' said Michal.

He turned to Athos who had developed a grudging respect for his enemy.

'Are you going to tell me what was in the papers?'

Athos looked away. He heard Michal move towards d'Artagnan, he heard the spirit being poured.

'Your young friend seems to have got the hang of this, quicker than you did,' said Michal, the remark aimed at Aramis who did not respond.

Athos knew he would not be able to simply watch as his friends were forced to either make themselves ill or watch the other being hit or kicked by their sadistic captors. He made a show of looking disinterested and turned slightly away. He needed time to construct a reply to the question that Michal was continually asking him. Athos was going to break the rule that they had. He was going to talk. But he had the unfortunate luxury of being able to wait a while before he had to talk. As his friends were forced to drink the spirits and become increasingly inebriated Athos went over the intelligence in his head. He considered what was too important to repeat and what he could say in place of it. Michal obviously knew how much information they had passed on, and probably had an idea what it was about but he did not know the details.

'He's already got a head injury, give him a cha-'

Aramis' complaint was cut off by the sound of a fist hitting him. Athos glanced around, d'Artagnan, his head bobbing, was trying to muster up the energy to drink the spirit from his glass. He had been too slow, and Aramis had paid the price despite his protests. Athos knew poor d'Artagnan would struggle to continue drinking and that Aramis would end up bruised because of it. Athos wished Porthos was there, he was far better at holding his drink than either Aramis or d'Artagnan. Michal had been lucky to be able to torment and humiliate the two of the four of them who would be affected the most.

D'Artagnan looked as though he was already struggling to remain awake, his flushed face and blinking made it obvious he would not last much longer. Aramis was not faring much better, but also sported several darkening bruises on his face and chest where his loose shirt was open. Athos knew both men had been kicked a few times as well, he had hated his continued act of disinterest when he heard the kicks landing.

Michal returned to him and asked the question again, Athos stared at him, he knew he was almost ready with his answer. He needed to wait until one of his friends stopped fighting back until one of them was defeated. If he spoke too soon Michal might guess that he was willingly giving him the information. Athos wished d'Artagnan would pass out, the younger man was not far off collapse.

'Drink it,' said Michal crouching down in front of Aramis who managed to down the spirit from his glass.

Aramis wavered but did not collapse. Michal chuckled before moving across to d'Artagnan who could barely keep his eyes open. Athos almost smiled when the younger man tilted to the side and ended up lying on the ground, he had not quite passed out but was clearly not going to participate in Michal's interrogation any further.

'A shame…' Michal looked at Aramis. 'More for you I suppose.'

Athos knew the moment had come to deliver his misinformation to their captor.

'Alright,' he said. 'I will talk…'

As he recited his lies and half-truths to Michal, he watched Aramis who was looking at d'Artagnan with concern, despite struggling to keep his head up. When Athos had finished speaking, he was not surprised to be asked to repeat a few of the pieces of information, but he was ready. Michal nodded as he looked at the notes he had taken.

'You did well. You lasted longer than I expected. I was not paid to kill you, so I will not be doing that. I don't think your friends are in any shape to follow us, therefore I will be going now. Thank you.'

Michal put the bottle down in front of Athos. He stood up, pulling a dagger from his belt as he did so. With a final sadistic grin, he leaned over Athos, holding him still, and sliced the blade across his arm, digging deeply into the flesh of his right bicep. Athos could not help hissing in pain and trying to move away, but the strong man kept him where he was.

'Just in case you decide to follow us,' he said.

Michal walked away, Luc in tow. The younger man was slipping a small blade into his belt. Athos looked towards d'Artagnan who had been cut loose by the young man. Athos shook his head. Their captor had cleverly left them with their work cut out. Athos would need his injury tending to, but the man that had been freed was the one who had been most affected by their treatment and would struggle to untie either himself or Aramis.

Michal might not have been paid to kill them, but he had certainly left them in a poor state.

The End.

**Whumpees: D'Artagnan, Athos and Aramis. **

**Authors note: (in case you didn't pay attention to the note at the start) ...this is the prequel to Chapter one.**


	26. Abandoned

**Abandoned**

**Authors note: This is linked to chapter 13 'Tearstained' and 20 'Trembling' but it is not a direct follow on to either. **

Porthos entered the asylum, he saw Aramis moving quickly along one of the dank corridors. He was about to follow when he spotted a man trying to hide in the shadows a few yards from the barred door that was swinging on its hinges. The man wore the usual ragged clothes of an inmate, the dirt and grim of years incarcerated within the unforgiving walls leaving the clothes grey rather than white.

The man saw that he had been spotted and tried to move back a few feet but stopped as Porthos moved toward him.

'Please, monsieur,' said the man, Porthos detected an accent, 'I should not be here.'

'That's what they all say,' replied Porthos.

The man pushed a hand through his thinning grey hair, which was a scraggly mess on his head. He straightened his shoulders, standing tall. Porthos guessed he was trying to look normal. Or whatever the man thought 'normal' looked like.

'I've been locked up here wrongly. They needed to hide me,' said the man.

Porthos nodded, 'of course you have.'

'Please,' continued to the man, 'I'm not a danger to anyone. They locked me up to keep me quiet. I was an attaché to Senor Mateu...the diplomat?'

Porthos shook his head, he had no idea who the man was talking about.

'How long have you been here for?' he asked, his curiosity piqued.

The man seemed convincing. Porthos still did not believe him, but something at the back of his mind made him want to hear the man's story.

'Ten years-'

'A decade? You've been here a decade?'

The man nodded, 'Senor Mateu was accused of spying. We were both arrested, I was put in here. I ...I've had no word about Senor Mateu…'

Porthos raised his eyebrows, the man seemed genuine. He decided to humour the man for a little longer.

'Who put you in here?'

'I don't know. I was taken from my bed. The men that brought me here said it was for my safety, that it would be for a few days, that I would be released...but no one came. None of the guards will listen to me...I ...I've stopped trying to convince them that I'm not insane.'

The man looked defeated as he finished his speech. The years of imprisonment had taken their toll on the man. Porthos wondered how old he was, he suspected the man had aged beyond his years.

'I think Senor Mateu might have been executed, but they did not know what to do with me. I overheard a couple of the guards talking about a Spanish diplomat being taken to the scaffold. I wondered if I would follow him...but nothing ever happened...I think I've been abandoned here...to die...because they don't know what to do with me...perhaps they've forgotten I am here…'

Porthos knew that political prisoners were held in prisons for years, decades, but for the man in front of him to have been left languishing in the insane asylum was a much worse fate. In the Chatelet, a man with a little money could live relatively well, but in the asylum, where the guards never believed anything the inmates said a man would simply exist. Until he stopped existing. Porthos was impressed that the man if his story were true, had managed to keep his wits for so many years.

'I can't just let you go,' said Porthos. 'I can talk to the guards-'

'I know,' said the man.

The man looked down, he leaned back against the wall, his shoulders slumped, a look of utter dejection on his face.

'I was probably of no use to them when Senor Mateu has arrested, I'd only been working with him for a few weeks. It was my first visit to France…' the man looked into the distance. 'I wouldn't have been able to tell them anything, even if they had interrogated me.'

Porthos wondered if he could find out anything about the man, perhaps secure his release. He did not want to get the man's hopes up. He was inclined to agree with the resigned looking man, there was probably no hope of his reprieve. It was possible no one even knew he was there.

A flurry of activity behind him made Porthos turn. A couple of Musketeers had pushed a struggling man through the door and were following a guard along the corridor in the opposite direction.

He turned back to the man, who had not moved. The fact that he had not moved only added to Porthos' growing belief that he was telling the truth. He wished there was something he could do. But he knew there was not. He could just let the man go, but if he was seen doing so, which, considering he was inside the asylum, was highly likely, he would be in a lot of trouble. Porthos did not fancy facing a potential charge of treason.

The man pushed himself off the wall and turned to look along the corridor, further into the asylum, Porthos closed the gap between them.

'I'm sorry,' he said.

The man nodded. They walked slowly along the corridor, passed one of the large cells that would normally accommodate many of the inmates. All the doors were open. Porthos wondered who had orchestrated the breakout and what their aim was.

'Who unlocked all the cells?' asked Porthos.

The man glanced back, 'I didn't see his face, it was one of the guards. He just went from cell to cell, unlocking the doors and shouting at the prisoners. The excitable ones all ran, even the timid ones...the quiet ones that never say a word, they slowly walked out as well. I think even the truly insane seemed to understand the concept of the freedom they were being offered. I hesitated. I don't know why. If I'd made a run for it straight away, I might have made it out.'

Porthos smiled, 'you probably would, although you'd have needed to get better clothes quickly, or you would have been easy to spot.'

The man chuckled.

As they reached one of the smaller cells the man paused.

'This is mine,' he said. 'I don't share…'

The padlock for the cell was hanging open from one of the bars. As Porthos reached up to pull it free a shuffling sound to his left made him turn, but he was too late to react. He felt a kick or a hard punch to his thigh which sent him stumbling back. As he crashed to the ground, he was in time to see two men who had been hiding in the cell next to the one he was about to lock the man in. The inmates had jumped out, pushed him over and made a run for it. Porthos tried to scramble up but only succeeded in getting to a sitting position before the pain in his leg was unbearable. He felt his thigh, his hand came away wet, in the dim flickering of the limited torchlight, Porthos saw blood on his hand.

He flinched when he felt someone grab his shoulder.

'You've been stabbed, don't move,' said the man who was crouched beside him. 'I saw the knife...I'm sorry I... kept out of the way…'

Porthos replied, 'I doubt you...could have helped.'

Porthos winced as the man gently touched his leg.

'What should I do?'

'Escape?' suggested Porthos with a wry smile.

The man put his hand on Porthos shoulder, 'I am not going to leave you here to bleed to death or get attacked again.'

Porthos leaned back on his elbows, 'a firm bandage will have to do for now,' he said.

The man looked down at his tatty shirt for a few seconds before ripping a couple of strips from it. He wadded up one and tied it firmly to Porthos leg with the other. The man steadied Porthos when he moaned with pain.

'Step away from him.'

The man froze, his eyes going wide. Porthos shook his head.

'Athos,' he said with a glance behind the man who looked terrified, 'it's alright. He's helping me.'

Athos moved slowly forward, his gun aimed squarely at the man, who was shaking slightly.

'Who are you?' asked Athos.

'My name is Vivas,' said the man.

Athos glanced at Porthos who nodded his head, 'he is a political prisoner,' said Porthos. 'He's been abandoned here. He thinks he's been forgotten.'

'And you believe him?'

Porthos nodded.

'He could have made a run for it when I was attacked just now, but he stayed with me. He helped me. Yes, Athos, I believe him.'

Athos looked at Vivas intently for a few seconds.

'Your friend needs looking after,' Vivas said with a glance at Porthos. 'The wound is deep, it needs stitching.'

Athos lowered the gun. Porthos watched Athos' face, he could almost see the thoughts running around his friend's mind, weighing up the choices, making the decision. Porthos almost smiled when Athos reached for his money bag, tipping out a few coins and handing them to Vivas who looked confused.

'The door at the end of the corridor,' Athos nodded further along the corridor, 'it is unguarded and can be opened from the inside. You need to go quickly. Get away from Paris, never come back. If you are caught, we cannot help you. If you are not who you say you are, we will deny that we met you.'

The prisoner looked at the money in his hand for a few seconds before looking up again. Porthos could see tears in the man's eyes. He nodded, glancing at Porthos with a slight smile.

'I... thank you. Thank you both. I wish I could repay you.'

'Just get out with your life,' said Porthos.

Vivas nodded, Athos waved his hand indicating for the man to go. The man did as he was told.

Athos watched him for a few seconds before crouching by Porthos ready to help him up.

'How many people attacked you?' asked Athos as he hauled Porthos up to stand.

Porthos took a few seconds to get his breath back before replying, 'two.'

'Two? I think you need to do better than that.'

Porthos thought for a second before he understood his friend.

'It was a group of inmates who had stolen a knife from one of the guards?' he suggested.

'That will do I think,' said Athos with a slight smile.

'Do you think he'll make it?' asked Porthos with a glance towards the door Vivas had slipped out of.

'We will never know,' Athos replied.

The End.

**Whumpee: Porthos. Featuring Athos. **

**Authors note: More from the Asylum break out later.**


	27. Ransom

**Ransom**

'It's ridiculous,' said Aramis, expressing what they all thought. 'We're being sent out to steal a book, to give to a kidnapper...it's stupid.'

Athos shook his head, 'but it is what we have been tasked to do.'

'Tasked to do,' said Porthos with a smirk. 'Ordered to do more like.'

Athos nodded to Porthos with a slight smile before saying, 'and we will follow that order, despite it being,' he glanced at Aramis, 'ridiculous.'

They continued along the track, following d'Artagnan who had been passed the area the previous week and camped in a clearing, that they intended to use again. They had spent most of the journey discussing the mission. The King had summoned them early in the morning, Treville had warned them the monarch was not in a good mood.

In his own, muddled, panicked way, the King had told them, with the Captain's help, that an important Spanish diplomat had been kidnapped. The kidnappers had delivered a ransom note asking for a specific ancient book of great importance to the kidnappers. The book, one of a kind, was owned by a noble who lived a few hours ride from the centre of the city.

Initially, Athos had thought they were simply to collect the book and return to Paris. But collecting the book from the noble was out of the question. The noble, a man who had grown up with the King called Robert, was currently out of favour with the King. The Musketeers could not simply arrive at the noble's chateau and hand over a missive from the King asking for the book.

The Musketeers were being sent to Robert's chateau to steal the book.

D'Artagnan turned his horse off the track and plunged into the thick woods, they followed in single file.

'It was only last week,' said d'Artagnan with a glance over his shoulder, 'it shouldn't need much setting up, the stones where we had the fire are probably still there.'

The dense trees would shield them from any passers-by, the path d'Artagnan had taken was an established deer path which would not draw attention either.

'Why can't the King just change his mind and bring Robert back to court?' asked Porthos. 'And why is he agreeing to the ransom? I thought that was not done to try to dissuade others from making threats.'

Athos had considered the same questions during their journey. The King could have simply allowed Robert to return to court as a favourite, bringing the book with him and all would have been well. But their stubborn Monarch had refused. Whatever Robert had done to upset the King and get himself a banishment from the court was still fresh in the Monarchs mind.

'He can be very contrary at times,' mused Aramis.

'At times?' said Porthos with a laugh.

'This is your King you are talking about,' Athos reminded them.

Aramis made an exaggerated point of looking around, for anyone who might be listening in the empty wood around them, before shrugging his shoulders.

The camp was prepared without incident. D'Artagnan led the horses a little way into the wood where a small, rocky, brook trickled passed providing them with water. Porthos readied the fire, using the same spot d'Artagnan had on his previous visit to the area.

'We will meet back here once you have retrieved the book,' said Athos. 'With luck, we can be on the way back to Paris this evening.'

'You make it sound so simple, Athos,' laughed d'Artagnan. 'Aramis and Porthos break in and steal the book. We cause a distraction on the other side of the house.'

'It does not need to be complicated,' said Athos.

Aramis, who was busy checking his assortment of weapons, looked up, 'except Robert has a lot of men in his employ after his chateau was attacked a couple of years ago...and he has a large domestic staff. We will spend more time dodging around people than actually breaking in-'

'Which is why d'Artagnan and I will be causing a distraction.'

'But not seriously hurting anyone,' d'Artagnan said.

Athos shook his head, 'we are not starting a war. The men in Roberts employ are not the enemy.'

'No, we're the enemy,' said Porthos with a smirk as he pulled off his pauldron.

Athos rolled his eyes, as he also unbuckled his pauldron. They knew they would be seen and could not tar the Musketeers good name.

They all looked at each other for a few seconds. A silent communication of good luck passing between them all.

'Enjoy your time annoying the guards,' said Porthos as he and Aramis turned to go.

Athos watched them go for a few seconds, before going back to his own preparations.

'Will they be alright?' asked d'Artagnan.

'Of course, they will, Porthos may not be proud of his time in the Court of Miracles but it taught him more about sneaking about and breaking into places than either of us will ever know.'

D'Artagnan nodded. After a final check of his weapons, he turned to follow their friends who had disappeared from sight within a few seconds of leaving them.

The wood was large, only thinning out as they reached the edge of Robert's estate. The two Musketeers paused at the tree line and took a few moments to orientate themselves. The chateau, built from grey stone, was of the typical symmetrical design. The two wings were staggered forwards creating an open courtyard across the front of the building. Wide steps stretched across the section in front of the impressive ornate door.

Each of the three stories had twelve windows evenly spread across them. Each window was a potential witness to their activity. Athos wished they had been afforded the time to carry out their mission at night. But the King, in his hurry to liberate the diplomat, had ordered his Musketeers to get the ransom as quickly as possible.

D'Artagnan pointed towards the back of the chateau, away from the area that Porthos and Aramis intended to break in. A couple of men had been posted on sentry duty, the overly cautious noble left nothing to chance.

They had been lucky to get a few minutes, before they left, talking to a couple of their fellow Musketeers who had visited the chateau a few months before. The two men had just returned from a lengthy mission, both injured and exhausted, but had managed to describe the chateau in sufficient detail to give Porthos and Aramis an idea of the layout. Athos wished the men could have joined them on the mission, but that was not meant to be.

Athos disliked the mission; they were only having to take the book by stealth because the King would not admit he had been wrong to banish Robert from the court. He hoped it would be worth it and that the kidnapped diplomat would be released once the ransom was paid and that he achieved some diplomacy.

The two uniformed sentries started a slow walk around the perimeter of the grounds which were bordered by a dark grey stone wall. The wall was only a couple of feet high, low enough for the occupants of the chateau to see over it, but high enough to conceal a man if he were to reach it unhindered. The sentries were walking away from the Musketeers hiding place. Without a word, d'Artagnan started to move forward, Athos followed a step behind, watching for any sign of further guards.

Keeping low they reached the wall and crouched down. D'Artagnan peered over the wall using an ornate pillar to help conceal him. Athos waited patiently for d'Artagnan to make his observations. The Musketeer ducked back down and turned to face him.

'The two sentries have gone out of sight, but there are three men who look like they're supposed to be watching a side gate.'

'Supposed to be?'

D'Artagnan grinned, 'they're deep in conversation about women.'

Athos tilted his head in confusion, obviously wondering how d'Artagnan had worked out what the men's subject of conversation was without being able to hear them. D'Artagnan moved his hand in a curving movement, indicating the shape of the female silhouette, Athos guessed he was copying what the men had been doing. He nodded his understanding.

'Perhaps we should join them?'

D'Artagnan smiled. They moved off, continuing to keep low until they were within earshot of the three men. Athos assessed them as they approached. The men were all wearing the same dark crimson uniform, the men each had pauldrons with the Robert family crest emblazoned on them. Robert was a man with money, and he was not afraid to spend it. Athos guessed the guards were soldiers that had been hired for their ability. He hoped that he and d'Artagnan had more ability when it came to fighting. Particularly as they were not fighting to kill the men, they only wanted to neutralise them.

Athos tapped d'Artagnan on the shoulder, stilling the man's forward momentum. D'Artagnan glanced back. Athos indicated that he would circle behind the men who were still talking about a woman one of them was trying to entice into bed. D'Artagnan waited for Athos to move off before he crept further along the wall.

Athos was able to use a neat box-shaped hedge to gain a few more yards before he would have to break cover and reveal himself to the guards. D'Artagnan was ready, loitering behind the distracted guards. Athos waited for d'Artagnan to signal before moving forward to surprise the guards. He had covered half the distance before the guards noticed him. They did not notice d'Artagnan.

With a drawn sword Athos took on one of the three men. The guard, of equal height and build to himself, only managed a couple of sword strikes before he was distracted by one of his colleagues crashing to the ground unconscious. Athos almost tutted at the man's lack of discipline when he saw his fellow guard fall. The distraction was all Athos needed to punch the man across the jaw sending him to join his friend in unconsciousness.

Both musketeers turned towards the stunned looking third man, d'Artagnan took a couple of threatening steps forward. The man realised he would be no match for them on his own. He turned and ran, full pelt, towards the chateau a couple of hundred yards away beyond an ornamental herb garden.

D'Artagnan turned to Athos, 'I think that went well, he should be warning the rest of the guards that there are intruders behind the chateau. We are now wanted men.'

'Not something I relish…but if it keeps them away from Porthos and Aramis I think we can cope for a while.'

D'Artagnan undid the belt on the man he had knocked out before using it to bind his arms behind his back. Athos did the same with the other man. They dragged the men out of sight but did not hide them. The idea was to inhibit the guards, not leave them badly injured or hidden so well they would not be found.

MMMM

Aramis watched Porthos as his friend observed the chateau. They each had their strengths and despite not being particularly proud of some of his own, Porthos would employ them when he needed to.

'There's a window near that door,' said the Musketeer without taking his eyes off the house. 'Looks like the servant's entrance, that window, it's probably to a scullery or boot room or something, we can fit through it and probably not be noticed as we climb in.'

'Probably?' asked Aramis with a quirk of his lips.

Porthos shrugged his shoulders, 'there is always an element of danger,' he said.

Aramis waited for Porthos to start moving forward, keeping low behind one of the many neat hedges that separated the ornate gardens. He could not help noting the different herbs in the kitchen garden as they passed them, the smells enticing. As they reached the wall of the house Aramis pressed himself against it, taking the role of the lookout as Porthos worked on opening the window with the minimum of noise. Within a matter of seconds, Porthos had managed to ease the dirty window open, a slight squeak on the hinges told them the window had not been opened for a while. As Porthos slipped into the chateau Aramis had a last look around. A shadow moved towards the corner of the house; Aramis guessed it was a sentry on his rounds. Without waiting to find out, Aramis climbed into the servant's quarters, swinging the window shut behind him.

The room they had entered was a storage room, linen and tableware were arranged on shelves and side tables. The door was open, but they could not see or hear anyone in the corridor immediately outside. Porthos was peering along the corridor as he waited for Aramis to clamber down from the table that stood by the window they had used to enter.

As Aramis reached him, Porthos quietly moved into the plainly decorated corridor, leading the way towards where they hoped to find the back stairs. They moved quickly along the corridor. Porthos paused at each doorway listening intently. Aramis glanced behind them every time they stopped. They could hear talking behind some of the doors, but no hint of movement. They reached the last door, which stood ajar, revealing the stairs behind it. With a last look back along the corridor, they slipped into the stairwell.

'George.'

Both Musketeers froze. The commanding voice sounded close by. A door on the first landing opened. Porthos moved swiftly to conceal himself in an alcove beyond the door. Aramis had no choice but to crouch down. As the door was pushed open Aramis could see a man, tall and well built.

'Yes, monsieur?'

Aramis looked at Porthos, who visibly wilted with relief as the man stepped back from the door.

'George,' said the man. 'Young Simon said there was a report of intruders in the grounds. Can you find out if he is imagining things? My son has started to make things up...but I want to be sure.'

The other man chuckled, 'yes monsieur, I will check.'

The door closed. The sound of footsteps retreating was welcomed by both the men in the stairwell.

'I guess,' whispered Porthos, 'that was Robert-'

'And Athos and d'Artagnan are doing their job,' finished Aramis.

They waited for a few more seconds before continuing up the stairs. They knew the library, and therefore the most likely place the book would be was on the second floor of the large chateau. As they approached the door they again stopped and listened. Aramis slowly opened the door, peeking out along the corridor. He stepped out into the main part of the chateau, listening intently. He heard Porthos pull the door closed behind them.

Slowly and carefully they walked along the corridor. The library was situated halfway along the corridor, the door to the library was open. Aramis was about to walk towards it when a door further along the corridor opened and a young woman stepped out. She wore the simple clothes of a maid. Aramis glanced around, quickly realising there was nowhere for him to conceal himself. He was not sure where Porthos had disappeared.

The maid smiled at him.

'Can I help you, monsieur?' she asked, her tone pleasant. 'I'm sorry I've only worked here a couple of days so may have to get Madam Noir.'

Aramis thought quickly, he realised the young woman did not know that he was an intruder.

'I was just on my way to the library,' Aramis said with a smile of his own, 'I have a meeting with Monsieur Robert in a few minutes.'

'Of course, monsieur,' said the maid with a nod.

She stepped aside and continued along the corridor towards the servant's door. Aramis watched her go. As she disappeared from sight, Porthos opened a door next to where Aramis was standing.

'Has she gone?' he asked quietly.

Aramis nodded. Porthos smirked.

'You were lucky.'

'You abandoned me,' said Aramis with mock annoyance.

Porthos shrugged his shoulders, 'you should have reacted quicker.'

Aramis shook his head and led the way towards the library.

'If you wouldn't mind not abandoning me again whilst I look for this blasted book, I'd be grateful,' said Aramis as he surveyed the many books in the library. 'This might take me longer than I thought.'

In front of them were shelves and shelves of books, a lot of them Spanish. Aramis could see that Porthos was a little dispirited. They had originally thought that they could search together, but Porthos' grasp of Spanish was not good enough to pick the required book from rows of other Spanish books.

'You'd best get started,' said Porthos as he moved to the door to act as a lookout. 'Let's hope Athos and d'Artagnan can keep up the distractions for a bit longer.'

MMMM

They moved on, d'Artagnan had felt a little guilty at knocking the men out and tying them up. But no one was hurt, other than a couple of headaches, and they had dealt with the first couple of guards successfully and left a man to spread the word that there were trespassers on the estate.

Moving a little further from the house Athos nodded towards the stable. D'Artagnan again moved away leaving Athos to take the direct route to their next target. He reached the brick-built stable unhindered. The horses within the building were aware of him, he could hear them snickering and pawing at the ground. Any groomsmen would be wondering what was upsetting the beasts. With luck, they would come to investigate and save the Musketeers from upsetting the horses any further. D'Artagnan did not want to cause the horses distress if it could be avoided.

A dull thud a few feet to his left told d'Artagnan that Athos had made his presence felt. The clashing of swords told him that Athos might not have only found a groomsman at the front of the stables. He quickened his step to join his friend.

Rounding the corner, he found Athos engaged in a battle with two men. A third man lay on the ground, sprawled where he had fallen, a graze across his jaw. A noise caused d'Artagnan to turn, drawing his sword at the same time, the groomsman he was facing looked terrified, raising his arms in defence and taking a couple of stumbled steps back as he did so. D'Artagnan moved forward, the groomsman moved back until he was against the wall, kept still by the point of the sword.

A quick glance behind him told d'Artagnan that Athos had the fight with the two guards under control. D'Artagnan looked at the groomsman.

'Take off your belt,' he said.

The man obliged quickly despite the shake to his hands, he held the belt out to d'Artagnan.

'Turn around, put your hands behind you.'

The scared man did as he was told. D'Artagnan quickly bound the man's wrists and forced him to kneel, pushing him forward and to the side, leaning him against the wall.

'Stay there and you'll be fine. We have no intention of hurting you.'

The man nodded quickly, his eyes darting towards the fight that was going on behind d'Artagnan. With a brief smile, d'Artagnan turned to assist Athos, only to find the Musketeer did not need any assistance. One man was lying on the ground, his hand stretching out to his left leg, while the other man was crumpling to the ground, with Athos' help, after being knocked with the pommel of his sword.

D'Artagnan crossed to the injured man, grabbing a bridle that was hanging on a support post as he passed it. With little ceremony, he pushed the injured man over and tied his hands behind his back before pulling his weapons from his belt and gagging him with his own scarf. Athos followed d'Artagnan's example, using more of the hanging tack to bind the unconscious man at his feet.

'Just leave them here,' said d'Artagnan. 'They're not in danger of being knocked by any of the horses and should be found easily.'

Athos nodded, 'we can tie them to the fencing.'

'So far,' said d'Artagnan, 'I think we're doing quite well...what?'

Athos was shaking his head, 'as soon as you think it is going well, it will stop.'

D'Artagnan hoped Athos was wrong.

MMMM

Porthos could only watch as Aramis methodically ran his finger along each shelf of books. He had managed to dismiss a few of the shelves closest to the door for his friend, they at least only contained books in French. But the rest of the shelves were full of Spanish books, some of which were old with several on each shelf that could have been the book they were looking for.

Porthos did not like the length of time the search was taking; every second they were in the chateau was another second closer to them being found. He could tell Aramis was going as quickly as he could, but the Musketeer had to be thorough. If the book was not in the library, they would have to search the rest of the chateau. Porthos did not like that prospect at all.

He looked back along the corridor when he heard another noise. There had been a few creaks which bothered him. After a glance in the other direction and checking that Aramis was still busy with his search, Porthos moved along the corridor towards the sound that had intrigued him.

A quiet gasp had Porthos moving quickly. He had to be quick to grab the boy that had been spying on them. The boy was not much more than ten years old, Porthos guessed he was Robert's son. He was well dressed and obviously not a servant. Porthos clamped his hand over the boy's mouth, preventing him from crying out. The boy tried to wriggle free but Porthos kept a firm grip on him.

The problem of what to do with the boy rushed around Porthos' mind. He looked at the curtain at the end of the corridor, it was tied back with an ornate plaited cord. Porthos did not like it but he knew he would have to restrain the struggling boy.

He picked up the slight young boy and carried him to the curtain. With some difficulty, he pulled the tie back from the curtain and twisted the boy around to face him. The boy looked very scared. Porthos decided, reluctantly, to use that to his advantage.

'If you make a sound, I will hurt you...and then I will hurt your family. Do you understand me?'

Porthos watched as the boy thought for a few seconds before nodding, tears spilling from his eyes.

'I'm going to tie you up and leave you in this cupboard. You are going to be very quiet. You are going to count to...3000 in your head, very slowly, and then you can knock on the door with your foot. Someone will come and release you. Do you understand?'

The boy sniffed a couple of times and nodded. Porthos took the cord and tied the boy's wrists behind his back, being careful not to tie them too tightly, the last thing he wanted to do was hurt the child. He picked the boy up again before opening the cupboard that stood along the wall of the corridor. The large ornate piece of furniture held bed linen but had enough space for him to sit the noble's son without leaving him too uncomfortable.

He looked at the terrified boy for a few seconds.

'Remember, count slowly. Do not make a sound until you reach 3000.'

The boy nodded again, his lips quivering as he tried to hold in his fear. Porthos looked at the boy with as mean an expression as he could manage before closing the door of the cupboard and turning the small key in the lock. He paused for a few seconds; the boy was not making any sounds. With a shake of his head and a feeling of guilt, Porthos retraced his steps to the library.

Their situation was not improved when he got back to the library. The door was wide open. A guard was standing with his back to the doorway, his gun trained squarely at Aramis.

MMMM

Athos led them further through the grounds of the chateau. They were alert, expecting the guards to be seeking them out. The man they had let escape would have had time to gather reinforcement and the men they had left in the stable would be found quickly. They both knew there would come a point when they had to abandon their part of the plan. They could only provide distractions as long as they could deal with the men that found them. Eventually, Porthos and Aramis would be on their own. With luck, when that moment arrived, they would already have found the book and left the chateau.

D'Artagnan moved ahead of him as they turned back towards the chateau, leaving the stable behind. The Musketeer was watching the chateau intently as Athos watched their surroundings.

They walked past some closely planted ornate trees. Athos glanced up, wondering for a moment what they were. The moment of distractions was regretted by the Musketeer instantly.

An elderly man, his wispy white hair and scrawny arms belying his strength, swung a billhook at him. The well-honed blade of the implement sliced into his right arm, cutting the leather of his doublet with ease. He could not help a hiss of pain as his arm was cut. The old man, Athos guessed he was a gardener, was about to yell. Athos pushed him down, clamping his hand over the man's mouth. They did not want all the guards and staff to know where they were. The old man fought back briefly before deciding that the element of surprise had gone. Athos pulled the billhook from the man's hand tossing it aside. D'Artagnan looked his way, taking a couple of steps towards them.

'Keep an eye out,' said Athos with urgency.

D'Artagnan nodded, before moving a few yards away, taking up a position where he could watch their immediate surroundings as well as Athos and the gardener.

The slight man did not try to fight as Athos employed the tried and tested method of restraint, the man's belt slipped from his waist easily. Athos secured the man's wrists before searching his pockets for a handkerchief. The man was soon gagged and moved to lie on his side, under the ornate trees. Once Athos was sure the elderly man was secure and as comfortable as he could be, he climbed to his feet.

He swayed, blinking. D'Artagnan was at his side, pulling the scarf from his neck.

'We should go back,' said the young Musketeer.

Athos shook his head as he allowed d'Artagnan to firmly bind the wound to his arm.

'They need more time,' he replied with a nod towards the chateau.

'But you're compromised.'

Athos raised an eyebrow, before lifting his left hand to show his friend he still had the ability to fight.

'We carry on,' said Athos firmly.

D'Artagnan did not look convinced but nodded before leading the way towards another outbuilding. Athos was aware of his friend watching him surreptitiously, despite his attempts to hide the effect the injury was having on him, Athos knew they could not last much longer as a distraction.

**...to be continued...**

**Authors note: This will be finished off in the final chapter. Not long to wait.**

**Whumpees: Athos. Featuring d'Artagnan and Aramis.**


	28. Beaten

**Beaten**

**Authors note: This is linked to chapter 13 'Tearstained', 20 'Trembling' and 26 'Abandoned', but it is not a direct follow on to them. **

Despite having to deal with a badly injured friend, Athos was quite pleased to be away from the chaos of the asylum. He had decided not to tell his friend about the woman he had seen escaping, particularly as her escape was not conventional. He did not want to have to talk through what had happened. Athos would concentrate his attention on his injured friend and poor Constance.

He had been shocked to find out about the attack on Constance, his friend had looked very shaken as d'Artagnan had walked her into the garrison yard. The physician that had been called to deal with any injuries was quick to get her sat down and given a sweet drink to sip. She had looked pale. When d'Artagnan had explained that she had fended off her attacker, leaving the man unconscious, Athos had been immensely proud of her.

D'Artagnan had taken a little persuasion to leave Constance but knowing that he was only going to be gone long enough to relocate her attacker to the Chatelet, meant he had a good reason to leave and was not abandoning her. Porthos had told d'Artagnan that he would keep an eye on her. Constance had managed a laugh and said that she would keep an eye on Porthos, who was weak from blood loss and pain.

The physician had told d'Artagnan and Athos that the distraction for both Constance and Porthos would be a good thing.

The chaos had continued for several hours. The Musketeers had become spread out across the city as they rounded up the escapees and dealt with the aftermath of their brief time on the run.

Treville had told them that he would muster the men in the morning and take stock of who was injured. His men were doing their job, protecting the citizens, he had no intention of stopping them doing so by trying to get them to report to the garrison only to be sent straight back out again.

None of them slept much that night, the worry for the Musketeers still out in the city keeping them awake. Treville had asked Athos to remain in the garrison to coordinate the men whilst he visited the Palace. Athos was only too happy to oblige, it meant he could keep an eye on Porthos and Constance. D'Artagnan spent several hours dealing with the prisoner that had attacked Constance. He had taken two cadets with him to help escort the dangerous man from Constance's house to the Chatelet. Athos knew he would then be stuck at the Chatelet by the over-friendly governor before having to return to the asylum to explain that one of the prisoners had been relocated.

Once d'Artagnan returned he was obviously ready to drop. Athos had pointed at the bed in the infirmary next to the sleeping form of Porthos. D'Artagnan was asleep in minutes, his hand stretched across to Constance who was sat by the bed of another injured Musketeer.

Constance was making good use of herself, although Athos suspected it was more a distraction from what had happened to her. Once she had gathered herself, she had assisted the doctor in dealing with the few injured men that had arrived before helping Serge in the mess for a while.

They had all been busy, it had been an easy thing to miss, but that did not make it any easier for Athos. For them not to have realised until muster, twenty-four hours after the breakout, had begun was inexcusable.

'Where's Aramis?' asked Constance as she handed Porthos a drink and poured another for d'Artagnan who had just woken up.

Athos, who had just walked back into the infirmary after the morning muster had been about to ask the same question.

'He is the only man missing,' he remarked. 'Everyone else is accounted for, either at the Palace on usual duties, here in the infirmary or at muster just now.'

They all looked at each other.

'I don't remember seeing him after we all started to head towards the asylum,' said d'Artagnan.

Athos shook his head; he had not seen the missing man either. Porthos, who was sat up in his bed, furrowed his brow.

'I saw him at the asylum. I was about to follow him, help him, when I saw...when I saw another prisoner that needed to be helped back to their cell.'

Porthos looked at Athos who nodded his understanding. The less said about Porthos' encounter with the asylum inmate the better.

'He could still be searching the streets, not had the message that we were to gather for muster…' suggested d'Artagnan, although he did not sound convinced.

'Something's happened to him,' said Porthos. 'We need to start a search.'

'You do not need to do anything, Porthos. You lost a lot of blood and are going to stay exactly where you are,' said Athos firmly.

Porthos did not look particularly happy about the idea, but Athos was not about to allow his friend to make his injury worse. Constance, who had been busying herself cleaning the infirmary table, turned to them.

'I can watch these two,' she said with a nod towards Porthos and the other injured man who was sleeping at the far end of the room.

D'Artagnan was about to say something but Constance glared at him. Athos hid a smile at the unspoken words between the two of them. Constance may have been d'Artagnan's lover, but she was also a friend to them all. D'Artagnan's expression became thoughtful.

'What?' asked Athos.

'It might not be anything...I'm probably wrong...I hope I'm wrong...but I might know where he is.'

MMMM

_The previous morning..._

Aramis rushed with the rest of the men; he knew they would need to get the prisoners back into the asylum as quickly as possible. He knew that the men and women who inhabited the dank lunatic's prison were not all as insane as society would have people believe. But some were. Some were very dangerous. It was not for him to decide as to who should and should not be housed within the imposing walls of the asylum.

The Musketeers arrived en masse but were quickly separated as they began the arduous task of chasing after fleeing men and women. Aramis decided he would try to prevent any of the remaining prisoners from escaping. If he could help the guards to secure the inmates that had not managed to breach the walls it would be a start.

He pushed through the crowds to the imposing double gates, the ones that were only generally opened to allow secure carriages through. Once he was in the prison itself, it felt as though the life had been sucked out of the air. The dank, musty smell assailed his senses. With no knowledge of the inside of the prison, he picked a corridor and started to make his way along it hoping to find someone in charge, a guard or the governor.

All the barred doors to the cells were open, their padlocks either hooked over the doors or discarded on the dirty ground. The escape had been orchestrated, but for what purpose, Aramis wondered.

There were no prisoners left in the corridor Aramis was walking along, he was about to retrace his steps when a movement caught his eye. A man was lying on the ground, against the wall a few yards further along the corridor. Aramis recognised the simple dark uniform that the guards all wore. He moved forward quickly.

'Monsieur?'

The guard managed to look up at him. He had one arm wrapped across his chest.

'I was kicked, monsieur,' said the man, his voice quiet. 'They knocked me to the ground.'

Aramis crouched by the man, ready to aid him in whatever way he could.

It was the last thing he remembered.

MMMM

He slowly opened his eyes, a dim, flickering light, all that lit the area around him. Aramis tried to focus but struggled for a few moments. As his eyes became accustomed to the dim light and he managed to focus, all he could see was stone. Rough stone. He turned his head, wincing as he did so, more stone. A wall of stone filled his vision. Aramis eased himself onto his back, cold stone under him, digging into him. He realised he was without his doublet and the breeches he wore were not his own. The shirt he wore was tatty and torn, the cold stone was pressing against his bare skin.

Aramis was able to focus his eyes but could not focus his mind. It took him a while to work out where he was. The last thing he remembered was being in the asylum about to help a guard. The man with dark blond hair had said he was injured.

Now he was lying on a cold stone floor, wearing clothes that were not his own. He was sure he had a head injury. He raised his hand to feel the back of his head. In doing so he found further things that were wrong. His wrists had manacles around them, a short chain linking them together. He stared at the manacles which looked old and rusty, there were already grazes on his wrists where they were cutting into his flesh.

Aramis wished he knew what had happened.

He slowly moved to sit, the room spinning as he did so. Once the feeling of nausea had stopped, he pushed himself up to stand, using the wall as support. The cell he was in was small. It was only meant for one prisoner. There was nothing in the cell, not a chair, not a blanket. He wondered how long he had been unconscious for. He wondered what had happened to the guard he had tried to help.

With a slow, calculated step, Aramis made his way to the cell door. The bars were cold to the touch. He leaned as far forward as he could, pressing his face against the bars, trying to see along the corridor.

'Hello?' he called out.

Moans and groans were his only response. Aramis guessed some of the prisoners that had escaped had been recaptured and returned to their cells. His fellow Musketeers had probably been within feet of him as he lay unconscious, facing away from them on the dirty floor of the small cell. As the noises died down, he tried to call out again.

'I need to speak to a guard...I'm not a prisoner...I'm a Musketeer.'

More moans and groans filled the air. Aramis could not see any movement in the corridor outside the cells. The apprehensive feeling that he had been trying to keep at the back of his mind started to manifest itself more fully, the apprehension was being joined by worry and a little bit of fear. Aramis tried to push the worst-case scenarios from his mind.

Was he actually insane? Was he meant to be in the asylum, was his whole life as a Musketeer something he had made up in his head?

Aramis did not know how long he had been in the cell, he was sure it was not long, and yet he was already being bombarded with ridiculous thoughts.

'I need to speak to someone. I need to speak to a guard.'

'Shut up,' came a yelled response from along the corridor. 'Stop setting them off. We've had enough of you all today.'

'Please, monsieur. I am a Musketeer. I don't know how I got here. If you come and look at me you'll see that you don't recognise me as one of your inmates.'

Aramis had tried to keep the fear from his voice, tried not to sound as though he was begging the guard to come to his cell, but he was not sure if he had succeeded.

'Do you honestly think,' said the guard, his voice clearer as he approached, 'that we would fall for that. We don't pay attention to what any of you look like...and just because you can string a sentence together, don't mean you shouldn't be here.'

The guard, a man in his fifties with a slight limp, stopped opposite the cell Aramis was locked in.

'You just need to check with my Captain. Ask him if he's missing a man. My name's Aramis.'

The guard looked at him for a few seconds before shaking his head.

'You don't look like a soldier. You're dressed in the clothes of an inmate. You're filthy...like an inmate...and your spouting nonsense...like an inmate.'

The guard turned to go.

'Ask me something that only a free man would know.'

The guard continued to walk away, 'be quiet now. We've got work to do. We lost a man today. We're busy.'

Aramis watched the man go. Was he taking away any chance of freedom with him?

His situation was grim. He had no idea how long he had been in the cell, how long he would have been missing for. It could have been a matter of minutes for all he knew if that were the case, he knew it would be hours before he was missed by his friends. Could he convince the guards that he was not an inmate in that time? Even when he was missed, would they think to look for him at the asylum?

Footfall in the corridor made him press himself against the bars again. Two different guards were walking along the corridor, being careful to keep themselves out of arm's reach of the barred cells.

'Messieurs,' said Aramis, 'I need to talk to you. I shouldn't be here. One of your guards...one of your guards attacked me.'

Even as he said the words, he knew he had made a mistake. One of the men, a younger man, who was sporting a bruised face paused and glared at him.

'We don't attack unless we're provoked. And you lot did a lot of provoking today. You probably deserved it-'

'I'm a Musketeer, I came here to help-'

'Don't let them get to you Pierre,' said the other man with a gentle tug at the young man's arm.

Pierre glanced at the other guard before looking back at Aramis. He walked up to the bars of the cell.

He pointed a finger at Aramis, anger flowed from his tense body, 'you are not a Musketeer. You are nothing. You killed my mate-'

Aramis shook his head, 'I haven't killed anyone.'

Pierre continued to stare at him, the grief at the loss of his friend obvious.

'The guard that attacked me...he was blond,' continued Aramis. 'He had a faded scar on his neck.'

The other guard shook his head, 'he's making it up. Just leave him,' the guard looked at Aramis, 'there's no guards like that and you know it.'

Pierre thumped the bars making Aramis step back slightly. The young guard smirked.

'Yeah, be afraid…'

The guard allowed himself to be guided away by the older man. Aramis watched the two men disappear along the corridor. He thought over what the guards had said. An idea of what had happened began to form in his mind. Had the man he had gone to help been masquerading as a guard? When he had bent down to help the man had he lashed out and knocking him unconscious. Aramis guessed the man had already killed a guard, then swapped clothes with him. The man, probably an inmate, had then attacked him and taken his uniform instead. He would have aroused less suspicion walking through Paris dressed as a soldier than he would have done dressed as a guard from the asylum. Aramis knew he would struggle to convince the prison guards who he was. The man who had attacked him had probably chained him up and locked him in the cell before leaving.

The guards had stopped further along the corridor, Aramis strained to listen to their conversation. The older man was trying to offer comfort to Pierre who was trying and failing, not to cry.

'It would have been a quick death,' said the older guard.

'That doesn't make it any better. The bastards killed him. He was like a brother to me. He kept an eye on me when I first started working here…'

'Once we've gathered them all back in, we'll find out who did it and we'll deal with. You know we can deal with this stuff quick in here. No one will know. Just us.'

Aramis could guess what the man was implying. Inmates died in the asylum and questions were rarely asked, if the death was noticed at all.

Aramis sighed, he moved away from the barred door and leaned on the wall for a few seconds before sliding down to the floor. He shivered; he had not realised how cold he was. He wondered how the inmates managed. Perhaps they just got used to the dank chill in the air. He guessed blankets or straw was distributed to the inmates, although he had neither.

The thumping in his head started up again. He closed his eyes. He needed his head clear so that he could work out what to say to the guards next time they came passed. He had to say something that would make them know he had been imprisoned erroneously.

Clanking and sloshing woke him. Aramis blinked a few times as the horrible reality returned to him. He had been dreaming about sharing a meal with his friends around a campfire, spending a couple of hours talking and teasing each other under a moonlit sky. The clanking got closer, stopped then resumed again after a few seconds. He pushed himself up and peered out of the cell door.

Pierre and the first guard he had talked to were working their way along the corridor carrying a sack and a bucket. The sloshing sound was water in the bucket. They stopped at each cell, Aramis watched as dirty arms stretched through the bars of the cells. A lump of bread was thrust into the hand of each inmate before a cup with a short chain on it, attaching it to the bucket, was dipped into the water and held up to each prisoner who awkwardly sipped the meagre offering before it was taken away from them.

'Oh look, Pierre,' said the guard whose limp was more pronounced as he heaved the heavy bucket of water, 'it's the Musketeer in his smart uniform.'

'One of your guards was sent to the garrison to get help. He was,' Aramis paused trying to remember something distinct about the guard, but he could not. 'He was dark-haired, slim...he-'

'You could be describing any number of men. Why don't you just shut up and eat your bread.'

Pierre reached into the sack and pulled out a lump of bread he held it out to Aramis who hesitated before taking the offered food.

'Not up to your usual standards, Musketeer?' asked Pierre. 'Perhaps we can get him some of the best Palace food, what do you think Jean?'

The other guards laughed.

'Please just talk to Captain Treville. I really shouldn't be here. I think the man that attacked and killed your friend. I think he was the one that attacked me-'

'Shut up,' said Pierre, dropping the sack and grabbing at Aramis' wrist before he could pull it back through the bars.

Pierre grabbed the bread from Aramis and threw it behind him. Aramis tried to step back from the bars, but Pierre had a firm grip on his wrist.

'You are meant to be here. My friend should still be here. He's not getting his dinner tonight...so you're not either.'

Pierre released Aramis.

'I'm sorry about your friend, but I had nothing to do with that-'

'You all had something to do with it,' Pierre practically shouted.

As his echoing words died down, the rest of the inmates started to shout.

'See what you've done,' said Jean to Aramis. 'Behave, or you won't get any food tomorrow either.'

The two guards moved on, clanking the bucket down hard at the next cell as they yelled at the inmates to be quiet.

Aramis watched them with an increasing feeling of despondency.

MMMM

He was awoken by the sound of the barred door being pulled open, a creak of the hinges bringing him to his full senses. He looked up at Pierre and another guard looming over him, they grabbed his arms and dragged him from the small cell out into the corridor, where two more guards were waiting. He tried to twist onto his front so that he could get his feet under him and stand up. Pierre kicked him in the side for his troubles. The air knocked out of him; Aramis could not protest to the four guards as his manacled wrists were trodden on. Two of the guards pinned his arms to the stone floor, pushing their boots hard into his forearms. Pierre looked down at him with nothing but contempt in his expression.

Aramis knew there was nothing he could do; Pierre was an angry young man and he was about to unwillingly help the man to release some of his anger. He was kicked another couple of times. He could not move away, and he could not curl up to try to protect himself. Pierre pulled a rag from his pocket; he leaned over Aramis and pushed the dirty cloth into his mouth.

'Don't want you distracting us with your lies,' spat Pierre as he moved to straddle Aramis, further pinning him down.

The young man smirked, 'you can pay for Samuel's death. Someone has to and you're annoying…'

Pierre punched Aramis hard across the face. The punch was followed up with more punches and slaps. Aramis was breathing hard, when he could take a breath, Pierre was not giving him a chance to breathe.

Aramis could not fight back, he prayed for unconsciousness to take him, at least then he would be free.

MMMM

_Thirty minutes earlier..._

'Where do you think he is?' asked Porthos.

D'Artagnan looked away for a moment not wishing to answer if he answered it would become real, and the thought appalled him.

'When I went back to the asylum to tell them I'd taken one of their prisoners to the Chatelet,' he paused, glancing at Constance for a second. 'A couple of the guards were talking. They said something about a man saying he was a soldier, saying that he kept asking them to talk to his Captain. They said he was making a nuisance of himself and would probably get taught a lesson before the day was out.'

'Taught a lesson?' asked Constance.

D'Artagnan nodded.

'We will leave immediately,' said Athos. 'Porthos, you will behave. If it is Aramis, we do not need him to be worrying about you.'

Porthos managed a nod. Athos looked at d'Artagnan who turned towards the door.

They hurried across the city, reaching the asylum gates within minutes of d'Artagnan making the horrific suggestion.

'You will let us pass,' said Athos.

The bored-looking guard on the gate shrugged his shoulders and pushed open the door for them. They made their way into the asylum. D'Artagnan knew the building was big, that some inmates were housed in groups, other individually. Finding one man would prove difficult when they did not know where to start.

A guard stepped out of a room to their left and looked towards them.

'Can I help you?' he asked. 'I thought we'd given up trying to round up any more. Most of them are back. We were planning to do a proper count in the morning.'

D'Artagnan stepped forward, 'When I was here earlier, I heard some of you saying there was a prisoner who keeps insisting he's a Musketeer…'

The guard hesitated before making a fleeting glance back along the corridor, d'Artagnan was aware of Athos muttering his thanks and turning to walk in the direction the guard had unwittingly suggested to them. D'Artagnan followed, the hesitation of the guard worried him, were they going to be too late, would Aramis have already been taught 'his lesson'?

A thud and some angry words up ahead made both men move quicker, Athos drew his gun. As they reached a junction in the corridors, they found what they were looking for.

A dirty and tattily dressed Aramis had been pinned to the ground by two guards standing on his outstretched manacled wrists whilst a third man punched him repeatedly. Aramis could do nothing to defend himself.

'GET OFF HIM,' d'Artagnan yelled, his voice echoing along the corridor.

The men looked around at him. Then refocused on Athos who was moving forward, his gun aimed at the man who was straddling Aramis, his bloody fist ready to make another strike to his helpless victim.

'What do you think you are doing?' d'Artagnan could not keep the incredulity out of his voice.

'Get off that man,' Athos said as he continued to move forward.

The men who were standing on Aramis' wrists moved back slowly. D'Artagnan watched as Aramis slowly pulled his arms back, grabbing a cloth that had been pushed into his mouth at the same time. As the guard that had hit him moved to stand Aramis screwed his eyes shut as he was kicked, apparently accidentally, by the guard.

'What are you doing?' asked the guard. 'You have no jurisdiction here.'

D'Artagnan did not pay attention to Athos' reply he moved to crouch by Aramis who managed to focus on him and tried to smile. Aramis' face was covered with bruises, his left eye looked as though it would soon be swollen shut. His wrists were grazed and bloody. Further bruises were developing on Aramis' chest, the torn shirt doing nothing to hide them.

'Can you walk?' asked d'Artagnan quietly.

Aramis blinked a couple of times before he nodded slowly.

'Just about, I think,' he said, his voice slightly slurred.

'Good enough,' said d'Artagnan.

Aramis tried to push himself up to stand but the beating he had just received proved too much. D'Artagnan found he was taking most of the assaulted man's weight.

'Let's get you back to the garrison,' said Athos, who had moved to the other side of Aramis to help.

They slowly walked passed the guards who either looked angry, in the case of the youngest one, or worried. D'Artagnan wondered if there would be any repercussions for what the guards had done to Aramis. Somehow he doubted it.

As they got outside Aramis shivered.

'Sit there for a moment,' said d'Artagnan, guiding Aramis to sit on a low wall opposite the gates of the asylum.

Once he was sure Aramis was steady he quickly slipped his doublet off, before wrapping it around the injured man. Athos nodded his approval before they began the slow walk back to the garrison.

The End.

**Whumpee: Aramis. Featuring all four and Constance.**

**Authors note: There will be one final visit to the events of the asylum breakout in chapter 30.**


	29. Numb

**Numb**

**Authors note: This is a follow on to chapter 5 'Gunpoint'. And it's another rather tenuous use of the prompt - sorry!**

Porthos kept his horse at a slow walk. He knew it was only a couple of miles to the next town but with a walking prisoner in tow, he had to keep the beast at a slow pace. Athos was walking his horse on the other side of the young prisoner.

The man who was a few years younger than d'Artagnan knew his fate. He had asked Porthos if he would hang. Porthos had been honest. The man had not been able to stop the tears that fell from his eyes. But he was a robber and had been involved in the deaths of several people even if, as they suspected, he had been coerced into the heinous acts by his uncle who was currently lying dead at the side of the road a few hundred yards behind them.

As they had moved off with the prisoner Porthos had glanced back and seen Aramis dragging the dead man to the edge of the road before helping d'Artagnan to his feet. The two Musketeers would follow them to the town once Aramis had managed to get the injured man back on his horse.

'Will my parents be told?'

'Sorry?' asked Porthos looking down at the young man.

'Will my parents be told I'm to hang?'

'I think it can be arranged for them to be notified,' said Athos. 'We can see to it that they are informed.'

The young man shook his head, 'I'd rather they didn't know. They think I've gone to work on the ships. That's what my Uncle told them.'

Porthos sympathised with the man despite knowing there was nothing they could do for him once they had handed him over to the authorities. He had been caught in the act of committing a robbery, the penalty was clear in such circumstances.

'Will you be there? … When they hang me?' asked the young man, looking up at Porthos.

Porthos shook his head, 'once we've handed you over, we'll be on our way.'

The man nodded and went back to looking at his feet as they continued to walk towards his doom. Porthos sighed, he looked ahead of them, at the pace they were going it would take at least thirty minutes to reach the town. But those last minutes of freedom would go quickly for the young man.

He felt something on his neck, he reached up to bat it away. The creature, a bee, did not take kindly to his attempt to get it off him, Porthos guessed it was caught in his collar. With a more concerted effort, he tried to free it. He was unable to prevent the small gasp of pain when it stung him before finally flying away.

'Bee sting,' said Porthos who had noticed both the prisoner and Athos looking at him curiously.

'Did you get the sting out?' asked the young man, a look of concern on his face.

Porthos reached up and gently felt his neck.

'I can't feel it,' he said.

The man nodded distractedly, 'good,' he said.

They began moving forward again. Porthos noticed Athos glance at him a couple of times before looking behind.

'I'm sure they won't be long. If he can't ride on his own, he'll double up with Aramis.'

Athos nodded.

Porthos could feel his neck getting warmer where he was stung, he felt the area, surprised at the warmth. He rubbed his neck for a few seconds.

'Porthos?'

He looked across to Athos who was watching him with concern.

'It's nothing, just itches where the sting was.'

'Stop, Porthos. At least let me look at it and make sure the sting is gone. You know it is worse if the sting is left in. Remember the stable boy last year?'

Porthos rolled his eyes but stopped his horse. The prisoner moved forwards enough for Athos to get closer to Porthos and look at his neck. Porthos pulled his collar down.

'The sting is gone, but it looks very red.'

'It'll be fine in a minute, stop worrying about it.'

Porthos did not like the attention he was receiving from his friend and the prisoner. Although he supposed he had caused the prisoner a distraction on his last walk. They continued for another few minutes before Porthos had to admit to himself that the sting was starting to cause him issues. His neck felt warm, but numb when he rubbed at it and try as he might he could not stop the dizzy feeling that kept washing over him.

'Athos...can you...can you take the prison-'

MMMM

As Porthos swayed in the saddle Athos leaned over to try to prevent him falling, he was not surprised when the prisoner did the same, a natural reaction.

'I've got him,' said the young man.

Athos nodded and quickly dismounted, whilst the prisoner managed to keep Porthos on the horse, despite his tied hands. Porthos was taking shallow breaths, he looked a little confused.

'It's an allergic reaction,' said the man.

Athos looked at him, 'how do you know?' he said as he forced Porthos to sit on the ground.

'My younger sister, she was stung when she was small. She was struggling to breathe, it's the same.'

The man nodded towards Porthos, who was blinking, he had sat forward holding his head in his hands as he continued to take short, shallow breaths.

'You need to lie him down, so it's easier for him to breathe.'

Athos could see the logic in what the young man was saying. He pushed Porthos back so that he was leaning on his elbows. His breathing seemed to settle a bit, but his friend did not look well. He looked around at the sound of horses approaching. He was pleased to see that d'Artagnan was riding on his own, although he was slow to dismount, unlike Aramis who was off his horse before the beast had even come to a full stop.

'What happened?'

'Bee sting-'

'He's allergic.'

Aramis looked up at the prisoner who was standing a couple of feet away looking down at them.

'He was stung a few minutes ago. This happened very quickly. He,' Athos glanced up at the prisoner, 'recognised the symptoms.'

'Do you know how to deal with it?' asked Aramis.

Athos knew that the young man would answer honestly. He had quickly formed the opinion that the unfortunate boy, he was barely a man, was a victim of circumstance. The man would not like to see Porthos suffer any more than he already had, particularly if what he had said about his sister was true.

'The local healer, in the village where I was born, she dealt with my sister. She mixed some herbs, it took a while, but Lisette got better.'

'What were the herbs? Can you remember?' asked Aramis unable to hide the urgency in his voice as he loosened Porthos' doublet and pushed the man to lie on the ground.

Without hesitation, the young man responded, 'we passed some back there,' he said pointing back along the road.

The man was forced to use both hands to point, the rope keeping them together.

'After my sister nearly died the healer taught us all how to make the drink for her, in case it happened again. I memorised it…'

Athos looked at Aramis who was looking back at him.

'I don't know how to deal with this. People don't get stung on the battlefield. His breathing is already worse. His throat is probably closing up…'

Athos turned to the young man; he untied the rope from the man's hands. D'Artagnan had pulled his gun but was not aiming it at the man.

'If you are unable to find the herbs or you attempt to run away, you will be shot, do you understand? I know you have nothing to lose by trying to run, but we may not kill you outright with the first shot, you could be left in a lot of pain.'

Athos knew that they would be able to kill the man with one shot, but he needed to keep the man scared of them, he did not want to have to shoot the man if he ran away. The man nodded and started to retrace his steps. Athos followed, quietly pulling his gun as he did so. D'Artagnan watched them both carefully for a few seconds before moving to help Aramis in whatever way he could.

MMMM

'Porthos?'

Aramis was not surprised when he did not much of a response. Porthos had twisted to lie on his side, one hand in front of him for support, d'Artagnan knelt behind the suffering Musketeer and lay his hand on Porthos shoulder to keep him steady. Porthos was clearly struggling to breathe, he was taking short, gasped breathes before slowly breathing out again.

'Can't...feel…'

'Don't try to talk,' said Aramis. 'Athos has gone to get help. Our prisoner knows what to do...more than I do…'

Aramis did not want to lie to his friend. Porthos was aware enough to know he was in trouble.

'Can we do something for the swelling on his neck? Cool cloths or something?' asked d'Artagnan.

The area on Porthos' neck, where he had been stung looked inflamed.

'Worth a try,' said Aramis, hating how helpless he felt.

D'Artagnan moved off to get a waterskin and some cloths. Aramis watched him go, pleased to see he was moving easily. After his brief assault, the Musketeer had been left bumped and bruised, Aramis suspected d'Artagnan would feel the injuries more as the bruises came out. But at that moment Porthos was distracting d'Artagnan from any pain he might be feeling.

'Why couldn't you have got yourself shot?' asked Aramis with a grim smile. 'I could have dealt with that...and if I couldn't have dealt with it I could have patched you until it could be looked at.'

Porthos managed to look at him, he smiled slightly.

'Sor...ry.'

'I know,' said Aramis.

He glanced along the road.

'It looks like our captive has found what he needs. He's picking something...I'll have to find out this magical cure...provided it works of course.'

Aramis looked back at Porthos who nodded slightly, before flinching when d'Artagnan lay a damp cloth on his neck.

'Sorry,' said d'Artagnan, 'should have warned you.'

As he watched Athos and the prisoner hurrying back, Aramis pulled a cup from his medical bag and reached across for the waterskin, guessing both would be required by the prisoner.

'Paul said the drink is not easy to swallow and as Porthos has been stung on the neck it might be even harder,' said Athos as they got within earshot.

D'Artagnan moved aside as Athos crouched down behind Porthos, pulling the injured man up to sit and leaning him back against him. Porthos did not object to the move, he had his eyes closed, his breathing worse than it had been.

Paul, who was fully invested in his job of saving the life of one of the men who was sending him to his death, took the cup from Aramis and poured a little water into it.

'I'll make it a bit stronger…' Paul glanced at Porthos who had opened his eyes a little to watch the prisoner, 'you are a bit bigger than my younger sister, monsieur.'

Porthos nodded between shallow breaths.

'It will taste foul.'

'If you are poisoning him, I will not hesitate to shoot you,' said Athos.

Paul shook his head, 'I am not poisoning him, monsieur.'

Aramis watched as Paul carefully broke up the herb into the water, swirling it around. Aramis recognised the plant, but not as a useful herb. Paul sniffed the water briefly, pulling a face as he did so. He handed it to Aramis who also sniffed the herb-infused water, the smell was not pleasant. He shuffled closer to Porthos who reached out for the cup. Aramis humoured his friend and allowed him to take the cup, but kept his hand on Porthos', fearing the rapidly weakening Musketeer would not be able to keep hold of it.

Porthos drank the water, he did not sniff it first, he simply made a concerted effort to down it in one go. Aramis glanced at Paul who nodded his approval.

'The healer, some of the folk in the village said she was a witch...but if the witchcraft saves a life...surely it's a good thing,' said the young man. 'She told us it could take a few minutes. It varies from person to person.'

They waited. Porthos shut his eyes again, probably disliking being the centre of attention as he struggled to take a proper breath. The wait seemed to be forever to Aramis but gradually, very slowly, Porthos' breathing began to improve. After a few minutes, Porthos tried to shift away from Athos, who allowed him to sit up but kept his arm around his shoulders for support.

Paul let out an audible sigh, Aramis looked back at him, the young man was flushed.

'I was worried it wouldn't work, that I'd remembered wrong...that I'd give him too much…'

'It's...working,' said Porthos quietly.

Paul managed a sad smile, 'good.'

Aramis looked at Athos who had looked away. D'Artagnan did not know where to look either. Aramis knew they were all thinking the same thing. Paul had saved Porthos and they were taking him to his death. Aramis took the cup from Porthos and moved away from his friends, turning his back on them for a few seconds. He did not want Paul to see the indecision that was on his face.

Athos made the decision for them all when he spoke Aramis turned back to watch.

'If we let you go,' Athos said quietly and calmly, 'you will have to leave the area...never return-'

'Why would you let me go?' asked Paul a naivety in the question that made Aramis sure it was genuine.

'You just...saved my...life,' said Porthos.

'But I killed people-'

'Did you though?' asked d'Artagnan. 'You said that your Uncle made you join him…'

Aramis watched Paul hang his head low, 'he tried to get me to do it but I wouldn't. He punched me once when I wouldn't shoot a woman.'

Paul sniffed, tears spilling from his eyes.

'The local people may recognise your Uncle's body when it is collected, which means they may recognise you. You have to leave the area. You will be a wanted man,' said Athos. 'Cut your hair, change the way you dress. Never return...you will not be able to return to your parents.'

Paul took in what Athos was saying. Aramis could see the young man working out what his life would be from then on. It took him a while to fully accept that he still had a chance at a life.

Porthos, whose breathing was almost back to normal, leaned forward, he put his hand on Paul's shoulder.

'You don't deserve the hangman's noose. None of us were happy about it anyway-'

Paul nodded, 'I could tell it was difficult for you, you were doing your job. I didn't know what to think as we were walking towards the town, I felt numb. There was nothing. I'd failed, at everything.'

Athos had pulled his money bag from his pocket, d'Artagnan did the same, within a few seconds all four of them had contributed a few coins.

'Take this and go...preferably in the opposite direction of the town. We will still have to report this. We will tell the authorities that you made off before we could catch you.'

Paul looked at the money for a few seconds before rising to stand. He looked at them each, in turn, pausing when he looked at d'Artagnan.

'I'm sorry I pointed the gun at you...I...I didn't know what to do…'

D'Artagnan smiled, 'but you know what to do now?'

Paul nodded.

'Thank you messieurs.'

'Thank you,' replied Porthos.

Paul looked at Porthos for a few seconds before turning to go, he walked across the road and disappeared into the woods, taking their advice and walking away from the town. They remained silent for a few seconds listening until the sounds of his retreat faded into silence.

'You know we'll get laughed at,' said Aramis. 'For allowing one of the robbers to get away.'

'A small price to pay,' said Athos.

The End.

**Whumpee: Porthos. Featuring all four.**


	30. Recovery

**Recovery**

**Authors note: This links chapters 13 'Tearstained', 20 'Trembling', 26 'Abandoned' and 28 'Beaten'. **

'Porthos,' said Aramis, 'I am in a better state than you-'

'You don't look it,' retorted his friend.

Aramis managed a smile, despite the discomfort the movement made. He struggled to find an area of his body that did not hurt. He was covered in bruises and grazes where he had been punched and kicked by the angry asylum guards, who had not believed him when he told them he was a Musketeer.

Between them, he and his friends had managed to collect several injuries. Porthos had been stabbed by one of the inmates and lost a lot of blood. The Musketeer had been told to remain where he was as Aramis' own injuries were tended to.

Constance, whose dress was torn after her own unfortunate meeting with an escapee, was keeping herself busy and probably distracted ordering the injured men about and making sure they were all comfortable.

As they had sorted themselves out Athos had admitted to witnessing one of the prisoners taking her own life shortly after the breakout from the asylum. Aramis could tell the memory was going to haunt Athos for a long time, he had described how he had been inches away from grabbing the woman as she plunged to her death in the Seine.

D'Artagnan, despite not picking up any injuries of his own, was guilty about what had happened to Constance, even though there had been nothing he could have done to prevent it.

Aramis had been surprised when all his friends had apologised to him for not realising he was missing sooner than they did. He had pointed out that the whole situation was chaotic.

And now they were all together again. As they should be. Although the question of how the escape started remained. Athos had disappeared to talk to the Captain and make a final assessment of the toll to the regiment. There had been an assortment of minor injuries to several of the other men but only Porthos, Aramis and a newly commissioned man, Albert, had been badly injured. Albert had been knocked out and had been suffering from a bad headache. The doctor that had visited to check on them all had given the man a sleeping draught.

Aramis watched as Constance checked the blankets were properly covering the sleeping Musketeer. As she straightened up she stopped and stared at the wall in front of her for a few seconds before moving away, blinking a couple of times as she did so.

'Don't bottle it up,' said Aramis.

Constance looked at him.

'You were attacked. That man could have seriously hurt you or killed you. Don't bottle up the feelings...talk to someone. Not necessarily one of us, but someone.'

She managed a smile and wiped her eyes, realising there was no point in pretending she was not upset anymore. She moved across to sit on the edge of Aramis' bed. Aramis took her hand.

'Even covered in bruises you turn on the charm,' she scolded.

'It's a curse,' he replied.

Porthos huffed.

'I thought you were asleep?'

'Can't sleep with you prattling on,' Porthos said with a wince as he pushed himself up to sit, before looking at Constance, 'and he's right. You know when we get a bit drunk and talk about battles?'

Constance nodded.

'It's bravado, but it also stops us dwelling on it.'

Constance smiled, 'if it weren't for you boys teaching me how to fight…'

She looked down and sniffed another couple of times.

'D'Artagnan said that you knocked him out. Good for you,' said Porthos.

A slight movement at the doorway caused them to look across. D'Artagnan was leaning on the door frame, arms crossed watching them.

'I thought,' said the Musketeer, 'that I was the one having an affair with her?'

D'Artagnan looked pointedly at Aramis and Constance's hands.

'Oh, shut up you,' said Constance with a chuckle. 'Poor Aramis needed comforting after his traumatic experience.'

Aramis nodded with mock sincerity causing Porthos to smirk.

D'Artagnan shook his head and rolled his eyes before crossing to the table and pulling out a chair.

'The Captain wants to talk to us all, said he might know what happened. They're coming over now.'

Constance rose from Aramis' bed.

'You can stay, Constance,' said Treville as he walked in, taking his hat off and plonking it on a bench.

Athos, who had followed the Captain, wandered over to Albert and checked he was still sleeping soundly.

'You were involved in this as much as they were,' continued the Captain.

Athos moved to stand in front of them all, 'it seems all of our encounters were connected in some way and the people involved were responsible for the breakout.'

Aramis glanced around the room; he guessed the confused expressions of his friends were reflected on his own face.

'The man that attacked you, Constance, he was also responsible for an assault on the young woman that Athos saw take her own life,' said Treville.

Athos looked down; Aramis could only imagine the frustration his friend felt at being mere inches away from saving the woman that had drowned. Constance sniffed a couple of times but shook her head when d'Artagnan looked at her. Aramis squeezed her hand.

'The man, we believe he was a Spanish soldier, had got himself incarcerated so that he could kill another prisoner,' said Treville. 'There was another man working with him who had also managed to infiltrate the prison with the help of one of the guards. The guard had been in debt, these men paid off his debts. The same guard is the one that was killed.'

'Why did they want to get into the asylum? Who would want to go in there?' asked d'Artagnan.

Aramis noticed Athos and Porthos exchanging glances, he wondered what they were thinking. Treville had also noticed the looks.

'Yes, Porthos, the man you and Athos helped to escape is involved.'

'How did you...?'

Porthos looked at Athos, his expression one of accusations.

'Don't blame Athos. I am your Captain, I know things. The man you helped, Vivas, was being held in the asylum to keep him out of sight-'

'He said he thought he had been abandoned, he'd been there so long,' said Porthos.

'His whereabouts was known,' said Athos, 'apparently he should have been released years ago, but he was kept in the hope that he could be exchanged. The Spanish decided that they did not like the idea of that and sent two men to kill him, thus removing a potential bargaining tool. Even though Vivas did not know anything - that he told us - he could have still had value.'

'And one of those men attacked a woman in the asylum and then tried to assault me,' said Constance.

'Yes, we believe he was not a particularly dedicated spy,' remarked Treville, with a shake of his head. 'The men orchestrated the breakout to cover their attack on Vivas. But something must have gone wrong and they did not reach their target.'

Aramis was thinking ahead, he considered the attack on himself.

'The other man. Are you saying he is the one that attacked me initially?'

Treville nodded.

'He was wearing the clothes of a guard. He killed the guard that had helped the men to infiltrate the asylum and after changing clothes with him saw me - my uniform - as a better opportunity to escape?'

Treville nodded again, 'this is a series of incidents where you were in the wrong place at the wrong time.'

'The man I took to the Chatelet?' asked d'Artagnan.

'Will be guarded properly,' replied Athos. 'Two Musketeers have already been assigned to watch him until he can be interrogated.'

'And the man that attacked me?' asked Aramis.

'Is being searched for...although we are not hopeful...your uniform was found an hour ago, he's already changed his appearance again.'

Aramis shook his head; it was Constance's turn to squeeze his hand.

'What about Vivas?' asked Porthos.

'As far as the authorities are concerned, he was amongst the inmates that died,' said Athos.

Aramis watched Porthos smile to himself, obviously pleased that the man he had helped had a chance of escape.

'Let us hope he does not run into the other spy,' remarked Athos.

Treville looked at each of them in turn, waiting for any further questions, when none of them spoke he reached for his hat.

'Rest,' he said, 'recuperate. We will manage without you for a couple of days. D'Artagnan, make sure Constance gets home safely.'

Treville smiled when he saw Constance's look of slight annoyance.

'It would be remiss of us to leave you unprotected after you have been caring for my men so well,' he said.

Constance looked a little placated as she released Aramis' hand and crossed the room to stand by d'Artagnan, resting her hand on his shoulder.

Aramis looked at his friends, they had all been affected by the breakout. The pointless attempt to kill a political prisoner had led to more deaths and bloodshed. He hoped that the man Porthos had helped did not run into the man that had attacked him. He hoped Vivas got away, hoped that the man that attacked him got his comeuppance and that the man that had attacked Constance and the unknown woman saw the justice that he deserved as well.

The End.

**Whumpees: Aramis, Porthos and Constance. Featuring Athos, D'Artagnan and Treville.**

**Authors note: I've got a few ideas to continue with this as there are still some loose ends to tie up. **


	31. Embrace

**Embrace**

**Authors note: This concludes chapter 21 Ransom. Athos and d'Artagnan are causing distractions for Aramis and Porthos. Athos has been injured and Aramis is being held at gunpoint. **

**The use of the prompt is very tenuous.**

Inevitably they ran into more of Robert's men. The three men wasted no time in engaging the Musketeers in a fierce battle. Athos was pleased they chose not to fire their guns. The clashing of swords was loud enough without the added report of gunfire. The man that had engaged him in an elaborate duel seemed unaware that his opponent was injured and fighting left-handed. The man took a swinging stroke, carrying him around in an arc as Athos stepped back. As the man spun back around Athos sliced his back and side. The man staggered to the side before collapsing into a well-manicured rose bush, the thorns adding to the man's discomfort. Athos regretted hurting the man, but now that he was compromised, he had to think of their ultimate aim over the health of the men they were fighting.

The strain on his injured arm had taken its toll. Athos knew he was losing blood and needed the wound tending to properly. He already felt weakened by the blood loss and did not want to become a liability to d'Artagnan.

He looked across in time to see the second of d'Artagnan's opponents fall, a cut across his forehead where he had been hit by the Musketeer. D'Artagnan was panting, the extra effort he had put in already affecting him. Athos knew they could not keep going for much longer. As he watched d'Artagnan catch his breath looking further along the path, towards the chateau, a movement on the Musketeer's other side caught Athos' attention.

'Behind you!'

Athos' shouted warning saw d'Artagnan spin around, sword ready, taking on the unseen attacker on instinct. All thoughts of leaving Robert's men alive were gone. The two Musketeers had been left with little choice but to take the men out. D'Artagnan was quick to dispatch the man, leaving him bleeding from a deep wound on the path in front of him. The man's gun, primed and ready for firing, held limply in his hand. Athos hated to think what would have happened if his shouted warning had come after the man had levelled the gun at d'Artagnan's back.

D'Artagnan looked at him, then down at the body of the man he had killed.

'Once this one is found, they're going to come in force. Robert will send all his men…'

Athos nodded, 'we do not know how many men he has, but we do know he has enough. I agree we will have to leave the area; it is getting too dangerous. If we are caught -'

'If we are caught,' interrupted d'Artagnan with a wry smile, 'Aramis and Porthos will want to rescue us and not carry on with the mission and just take the book back to Paris.'

Athos nodded again. The mission had started simply but had rapidly become complicated.

'Hopefully, we have done enough to distract Robert and his men from the burglary that is happening right under his nose.'

D'Artagnan moved to stand beside him, Athos realised he had been wavering again, he accepted his friends help as they started to make their way back towards their camp. He could only hope they had done enough to assist Porthos and Aramis.

MMMM

The guard, his new looking pauldron catching the light as his gun hand wavered, looked a little uncertain. Porthos suspected the man had not expected to find a stranger standing on a chair holding an old Spanish book in his hand. Aramis had his arms spread to the sides to show he was not holding a weapon. He was speaking to the guard in Spanish, the guard was replying in kind. Porthos could not follow the conversation but knew from the terse way the guard was replying to Aramis that the Musketeers charm was not working.

The man, who was obviously new in Roberts employ, probably thought he was about to go up in his master's estimations. The capture of a burglar in the act of stealing was going to look very good for the new guard.

Porthos put himself in Aramis' eyeline, his friend did nothing to indicate he knew he was there. But Porthos knew that Aramis was aware of him. Aramis said something that made the guard take a couple of steps forward, further into the room. The guard's reply was angry, his gun hand was used to underline whatever he said by swinging it slightly. The move was what Porthos was waiting for. With Aramis in less danger of accidentally being shot Porthos grabbed the man from behind, encircling his arms around the slighter man.

They both fell to the floor, Porthos awkwardly hit a chair on the way down, catching his side. He knew he had hurt himself but could not release the guard. They could not be found. Aramis was with them in seconds, a swift punch to the head of the guard leaving him stunned. Porthos released the man and twisted onto his back, wrapping his right arm across his chest as he did so. He trusted Aramis to deal with the guard as he worked through the pain. With his eyes screwed shut he heard Aramis hit the guard a second time before moving the man a few feet away.

'You alright?' asked Aramis, an urgency to his voice.

Porthos managed a nod but kept his eyes shut.

'You sure?'

Porthos nodded again, 'just...need...a... minute.'

'You can have thirty seconds. We have to go,' replied Aramis.

Porthos managed to open his eyes. Aramis was busy tying the guard's ankles together, his wrists already bound with ribbon taken from a desk, a loop of which had been hooked around the legs of a heavy-looking couch.

'I've got the book. Can you walk? Where are you hurt?'

Porthos hissed in pain as he pushed himself up to sit.

'Ribs,' he said, 'air knocked out of me.'

Aramis crouched by him, looking at him with concern. His friend gave him a few seconds longer to catch his breath before offering his hand. With Aramis' help, Porthos got to his feet.

'I think,' said Aramis, 'it is time for us to make good our escape.'

MMMM

D'Artagnan tightened his grip slightly on Athos' waist when the injured man stumbled.

'I am not that bad,' said Athos, through gritted teeth.

'Stop tripping up then,' replied d'Artagnan.

They had managed to evade the guards in the gardens. Athos had obviously been uncomfortable as he was forced to get to his hands and knees several times as they ducked behind the clipped hedges and low walls. It was obvious Roberts men were searching for them. D'Artagnan hoped the heightened alertness was due to their distractions and nothing to do with Porthos and Aramis getting caught.

The fact that they were camped some distance from the chateau and had covered their tracks well, meant d'Artagnan was confident they would not be found. As they reached the camp Athos pushed himself away and made his own way to the centre of the clearing. He awkwardly pulled his bedroll closer to the unlit fire and clumsily sat down.

'All we can do is wait,' said Athos.

D'Artagnan nodded grimly.

'We can entertain ourselves dealing with your injury.'

Athos shook his head, 'I am thrilled to be a source of entertainment for you.'

The wait for their friends to return was going to be difficult. D'Artagnan would have liked to wait closer to the chateau but the chance of being found was too great and with Athos injured they were at a disadvantage if they need to fight.

Athos eased his arm from his doublet as d'Artagnan opened the medical bag.

'It's going to need stitches,' said d'Artagnan as he cleaned the wound.

Athos hissed in pain, 'can you deal with it?' he asked.

D'Artagnan shook his head, 'not well enough. I think we should wait for Aramis.'

Athos sighed, 'I look forward to it.'

After d'Artagnan had wrapped a bandage around Athos' injured arm and lit the fire, they both settled down to wait. D'Artagnan watched the woods carefully with occasional glances at Athos. He hoped they would not have to wait long.

When Athos shook him, he looked at his friend with confusion.

'You were nodding off,' said Athos. 'Why don't you try to sleep for a while. You were on duty last night and have had much less sleep than the rest of us and yet been just as alert.'

D'Artagnan could not help a guilty look cross his face. He had been aware of feeling the effects of his lack of sleep creeping up on him but felt bad for being caught off guard by his injured friend.

'I am not going to pass out from blood loss. This is not bleeding much now. And we will not be found, except by those that we want to find us.'

D'Artagnan reluctantly nodded, 'wake me if you hear anyone coming, even if you think it's them.'

Athos nodded.

MMMM

Aramis pushed his friend to lean against a large tree. Porthos did not protest, he reached out with one hand and steadied himself. They had managed to get far enough from the chateau that they could stop without fear of being found. Their exit back down the servant's stairs and out the same window had not been quite as elegant as their entry. Porthos had tried to hide the difficulty he was having breathing, but Aramis had seen through the facade instantly. The guards seemed to have disappeared, orders were being given at the front of the chateau. Aramis guessed the distractions that Athos and d'Artagnan had planned to cause had worked. It meant he and Porthos could slip away untroubled, which was a good thing as Porthos was in no state to run or fight.

'They're not following us,' said Aramis. 'Take a minute to catch your breath.'

Porthos nodded, 'sorry,' he said.

'What for? You saved me. There was no way I could have got away from that guard without either him or me getting badly injured. It was just unfortunate that you ended up hurt.'

Aramis watched as Porthos thought through what he had said. He managed a pained smile as he pushed himself back up to stand again. Aramis remained close by but allowed his friend to walk unaided. Aramis was fairly sure Porthos had hit his head when he fell with the guard and was struggling to keep his focus. The sooner they made it back to the camp the better.

They were both pleased to reach the deer track and follow it towards the well-hidden safety their camp would provide. Aramis was keen to see Porthos sat down and rested.

As they emerged into the clearing the first thing Aramis saw was Athos sat by the fire, a blood-stained bandage around his arm. D'Artagnan was standing to the side, his gun drawn but a smile on his face. The smile faded when he saw Porthos.

'What happened?' asked Athos and Porthos at the same time.

Aramis chuckled, 'we got the book,' he said. 'We succeeded in our mission.'

The four Musketeers looked at each other for a few seconds. Athos broke the silence.

'I was injured by an old man with a billhook,' he said, 'I expect to receive comments and reminders of it for a long time.'

Aramis eased Porthos to the ground next to Athos, before he took a look at the injury to his friend's arm.

D'Artagnan looked up from the fire, 'but you still managed to save me from being shot in the back.'

'And Porthos was injured saving me from one of the guards who was about to make a capture of a burglar which would have no doubt seen him well rewarded by Robert,' said Aramis.

Porthos shook his head slowly, 'I could have taken him out without ending up in this state,' he said.

Aramis smiled, 'I don't think you could have done. We were under a little pressure at the time.'

They lapsed into silence, each man thinking through what had happened and what could have happened.

Aramis unwound the bandage on Athos' arm before readying a needle to stitch the wound. D'Artagnan moved behind the injured man and held him still. Porthos managed to shuffle himself a little closer and leaned on Athos' legs. Athos nodded to Aramis before biting down on a piece of leather. Aramis made quick work of the stitches as d'Artagnan and Porthos kept the tense Athos still. Aramis was impressed that Athos did not pass out, but the Musketeer was pale and sweating by the time he had put the last stitch in.

'You do realise, we would not have completed this mission if one of us was missing,' said Porthos who had been rather pensive as Aramis had worked on Athos.

'In what way?' Aramis asked as he wrapped a fresh bandage around Athos' arm.

'Well, I saved you from getting shot-'

'Thank you,' said Aramis, reaching out a hand to slap Porthos on the shoulder.

'And you got me out of there when the pain got a bit much.'

Porthos paused when both Athos and d'Artagnan stared at him.

'He'll be fine,' said Aramis. 'He had the air knocked out of him and I'm fairly sure he knocked his head as well...my hero.'

Aramis grinned, Porthos grabbed him in a brief hug before pushing him away. Aramis suspected the sudden move had made his friend dizzy but did not say anything, the thought was what counted at that moment.

Porthos looked at Athos, 'and from what d'Artagnan said, you stopped him from getting shot in the back-'

'A well-placed shout is hardly saving a life,' retorted Athos.

D'Artagnan stared at Athos, 'the lack of gunshot wounds in my back says differently…'

Porthos smirked, 'you saved his life. And he saved yours,' Porthos pointed to each man in turn as he spoke.

'That I will agree with,' said Athos.

D'Artagnan bumped Athos' shoulder, earning him a glare, quickly followed by a smile from his friend.

They all looked at each other for a few seconds. Porthos broke the silence.

'Let's keep doing it. Saving each other. We are more than the sum of our parts after all.'

The End.

**Whumpees: Athos and Porthos. **

**Authors note: more of a metaphorical embrace.**

**And that's the end of Whumptober 2019. I hope you enjoyed them as much as I enjoyed coming up with the ideas and writing them. Thank you for commenting, following and favouriting.**


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